Face of My Soul
by Di The Creator
Summary: One was born with the face of an angel, the other a head of death. But what if they were to exchange faces?
1. 1 Erik Is Dead

Author's Note: 

It took a lot of debating with myself to settle on which of the various versions of each story I would follow before I finally decided to just follow the books. This story picks up immediately at the end of Leroux's Phantom of the Opera novel as well as the end of Wilde's Picture of Dorian Gray. Though, if you prefer any of the movies, I did try to leave some ambiguity for you. ;)

Also, I do not do slash! If you are expecting some romance between Erik and Dorian, you've come to the wrong story. This is merely a "what if" tale.

Now that that's settled, hope you enjoy!

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ERIK IS DEAD

_Erik is dead._

That was what the _Époque_ read, and it needed no context for Christine to know its meaning. Immediately, it drew her suddenly dazed eyes to the gold band upon her finger that was shadowed by the large stone of an additional ring.

"_Come back to me, Christine… Swear to me you will come back when I am dead to bury me forever away from the eyes of the world… And bury with me this gold ring. I wanted you to wear it as my bride, but now I only ask that you wear it until I am dead… Only then can we truly be free of each other…"_

He then told her where and when she could find his body in the cellars of the opera. There was such a change in him, one that reminded her of the gracious "angel" who had taught her to sing. To express herself with her voice in the most divine way capable of any mortal. The cruel and hideous "opera ghost" was momentarily hidden as he sank to his knees and lightly touched the hem of her gown.

Without a word, she knelt down as well, and very softly, placed a kiss upon his pallid forehead. The most heart wrenching sobs burst from him, his grotesque face buried behind his clammy hands. Raoul, who was weak from captivity, had been watching all the while and summoned his remaining strength to lead her from the fallen angel; to lead her back out into the sunlight once more.

No sooner did she and Raoul find themselves free did they seek out a priest somewhere isolated, to confirm their love and devotion in elopement. Now, she sat at a breakfast table with the sun shining upon her back and lighting the black ink of the paper in her hand.

_Erik is dead._

She read the words again. There was not joy or sadness at the advertisement. Instead, there was a distinct emptiness. Her Angel was dead. Slowly, she lowered the paper to the table, her eyes unfocused.

"Christine?" Raoul's voice softly came across the small table, a piece of toast in one hand as he held a letter the other that had arrived in the morning post. "Is anything wrong, my love?"

The reminder of reality brought her to blink away the past and to offer a sweet smile. "No, dearest. I must still be tired…"

Folding the paper, she deliberately concealed the advertisement. To counter the promise that she had made to Erik to bury him when he was dead, Raoul had made her swear as well that she would do nothing of the sort. That she would go nowhere near the cellars of the Opera House ever again. She promised, and even as she did so she knew she could not keep it.

Erik had made her suffer. He had made a lot of people suffer. But how could anyone have suffered as much as he had? And how could she refuse him one last request when he had given so much of himself to her in secret for so long? It was not something she expected Raoul to understand. To a noble sailor and aristocrat, the world was black and white. The chapter of her life involving that Angel of Music would have to be concluded in secret and alone as the only secret she ever intended to keep from her beloved Raoul.

That night, Christine lay awake in bed as patiently as possible. She listened to Raoul's breathing, waiting for him to fall into a deep sleep and remove his comforting arm from around her. It pained her to sneak away from him like a thief in the night, but he would surely stop her if he knew where it was she was going.

Dressing quickly in a simple walking dress, she felt as though she was reliving a scene from the past. Of a time when she ventured out into the night to visit her father's grave to hear his violin play in the fog that swirled around the mausoleums and headstones. There was a time that she thought it to be her father, but she quickly learned that it had indeed been Erik. Who else could have played so perfectly? And on one of those nights, Raoul, in his need to protect her, had followed her to the graveyard. Tonight, she would not be so oblivious. Tonight, she would be vigilant and keep one eye over her shoulder.

A cab was hailed rather than one of the household servants. She ordered it to the Opera, and after a long clattering ride through the quiet streets of Paris, they soon reached the magnificent building. It blended into the blackness of the sky, as there was no moon to outline it. Using memory that had become like second nature, she made her way through little known corridors that Erik had once led her through when taking her to and from his lair. There were only a few times that she had to pause in the darkness to remember her way or to avoid the screeching rats that lined her path.

The further she went into the bowels of the earth, the more her heart began to race and her mind to wander. The damp chill of the cellars made her shiver and she began to wonder if this was a lure. The Phantom was conniving and was willing to kill to make her his. He could have been waiting down there for her, to steal her and lock her away forever. The thought was terrifying, and yet she continued onward to fulfill her promise.

As instructed, she crossed the black lake from the Rue-Scribe side, taking the gondola for the first time by herself. Her frail arms were not accustomed to such a task, and so it was a slow process pushing the boat into an easy glide across the water. Her hands began to tremble as she could faintly see the outline of his house on the lake. There was only one source of light that served as her beacon. It was a single candle somewhere in the darkness that was unmoving in the dank and still air of the underground lair. But it only lit a tiny radius of the place, leaving the rest in blackness.

The gondola scraped the edge of the lake sooner than she anticipated and it caused her to stumble forward rather ungracefully. But, with her hands on the pole, she maintained her balance and cautiously stepped off of the boat with one hand clutching at her skirt. Due to her inability to see in the darkness, she went directly for the singular candle that had almost burned completely. It was set upon one of the Louis-Philippe tables that decorated the Phantom's home, and as she picked it up by its coiled brass handle, she realized that was the only piece of furniture left. Everything else had been removed, the place emptied to look like the tomb if often served as.

Her voice threatened to rise from her throat, to speak his name into the shadows. She felt as though he was there to hear it, but the deathly silence made her consider otherwise. With the candle in hand, she continued to follow his instructions as to where to find his body. He told her that he would be at his organ, the place where he had poured out his heart and soul in the form of musical notes etched in ink. Her steps echoed in the strangely emptied place as they timidly carried her towards that large instrument. The candle was lifted some to reveal the mass of pipes that extended towards the ceiling.

As she came nearer, however, a black mass caught her eye and brought her heart to stop. It was slumped on the floor, the upper portion of the body hanging over bench seat. Draped around it like a funeral tapestry was a black cloak, and the only thing that made it recognizable as a body was the outstretched hand that seemed to glow in its paleness.

"Erik…"

His name came out at a whisper, her voice drenched with pity, but not necessarily regret. Only death could bring a tortured creature like the Phantom true peace… With some reluctance, she moved nearer and set the candle upon the organ. Then, lowering herself beside the motionless body, she reached towards his narrow shoulders. Her hands withdrew once with unknown fear, but with a deep breath, she carefully pulled the body from its slump on the bench seat. As gently as she knew how, she moved it in hopes of laying it flat upon the ground, in a more respectful position. But as she moved it, it groaned.

The surprise caused her to gasp as a scream caught in her throat, and reflex made her to release the body as she moved it, causing it to thud onto its back at the foot of the organ. What she saw, however, made her stare wide-eyed in the dim light for what seemed like ages. With a gaping expression, she reached blindly for the candlestick to bring the light of the flame nearer. It was not the grotesque and haunted face of the Opera Ghost that was lying there… It was a young, smooth, and handsome face that looked as though it had been peeled off a romantic painting. This wasn't Erik at all!


	2. 2 Shadow of Death

2.

SHADOW OF DEATH

"There is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you," his dearest friend had once said to him.

"There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry," he replied sincerely.

His life had been a tangled mass of hypocrisy, wickedness and soul-corroding pleasure. He had taken delight in the abhorrent and happily watched as his purity rotted away in the acid of vice. It was the purpose of his life to experience the world and every despicable aspect of it. To him, all was limitless and temptation existed to be yielded to. But the feeling of blood as it made his grip slippery on the knife made him realize too late that there were indeed lines to be crossed. That Morality was not a creature to be scoffed at for long.

To the world, however, his evil ways were a rumor. A whisper in the night that was forgotten when they would behold his youthful and innocent face in the light of day. To them he was pureness and perfection made flesh. Unfortunately, his beauty was a thin mask for the guilt that began to eat him inside. And with that guilt was a fear that he had dug his grave too deep. He had done irreparable damage to his immortal soul the moment that he bartered it away.

If this damnation could only have been a delusion of his guilty mind. It could have passed as such if he did not have that depraved painting in the old schoolroom of his house to show every sin ever committed by him in daubs of the most disgusting hues and textures. The painting was the one permanent blot within his lustrous aesthetic life, and it was also the proof of his sins. There was now blood upon its clawed hands that confessed his most perilous sin: _murder_.

It needed to be destroyed, he knew. It had fascinated and tormented for eighteen years, making him take pride in his eternally boyish face, yet reminding him of his decadent tendencies that would make even the most debase cringe. It was time to be rid of it and at last begin a life of good and decency. Perhaps there was hope for his soul yet, if he could only earn it back from Lucifer's grip through ethical and kind deeds.

The same knife that was once been slick with blood had been cleaned and was taken in hand again. This time, it would not kill an innocent. This time, it would kill the wicked. Though he meant for the wicked victim to be that gruesome portrait- not himself.

As he stabbed the knife into the heart of the painted monster, the pain cut through his own chest, evoking a scream of agony before blackness threw him to the ground. He remembered breathing only one last breath, and in that moment his last sight was that of the portrait looming over him. Then nothing.

It was hollow. Empty. It was neither warm, nor cold. Nothing could be seen, felt, heard, or smelled… All of his worshiped senses rendered null. But he welcomed it, for it the feeling of nothingness meant that nothing mattered and this lack of sensation was beyond any euphoria that he attained through the magic of drugs. This was genuine death.

But in this one timeless moment, he failed to recall for the first time that he belonged to the Devil. The reminder came in the form of sheer anguish as the fires of Hell coiled around him, ripping from him the soul that did not belong to him.

_Do not forgive us our sins, but smite us for our iniquities!_

That was among his last sentiments when he was still living; the wish that punishment was quick and exacting for each instance that it is committed. Instead, it all came at once. All of the pain and corruption inflicted by him, the indulgences in vulgarity and debauchery coming down upon him in an avalanche of torture. With terror, he knew this was to be his eternal fate. He had been waiting for it and tried too late in his prolonged life to reverse it.

But it suddenly ended. The immeasurable suffering was snuffed out like a flame in a closed palm and he felt… restrained. His eyes opened and he saw only blackness. He stared into the dark, his eyes wide. It wasn't until the air forced its way from his lungs that he remembered to breathe and his heart pounded with fear and confusion. And as his breath rolled out of him, he could feel it wafting back into his face as it reflected off a close surface. After some careful and slow movements, he realized that he was in a very small, closed space. By the softness of his roof and bed, it felt distinctly like a coffin. It was lined with silk, he somehow noticed in the midst of his growing fear.

He then heard a voice. It was muffled through the wood and silk of his box, but by its pious and righteous tone, he knew it to be a prayer being recited from the Bible.

"_As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…_"

Memory was his only means of recognizing the words. He was dead. He must have been a ghost fooling itself into breathing. Perhaps he was forced to haunt his own grave? Is that what Satan decided to do with the soul he was paid with? At first, Dorian did not see the punishment in it. That is, until he imagined an eternity spent among filthy graves where the only form of fashion to be seen was the drab garb of mourning. There was no music in graveyards, either. Only crows and crying. There was no perfume, softness or beautiful flowers, aside from the ones laid to wither upon headstones. In fact, after a life of pure pleasure, Dorian was now convinced he was to haunt the one place that was _without_ any form of pleasure.

"_A rose-pale façade at last, Upon a marble stair._"

Unlike the priest's noxious voice, the crisp and wise voice of Lord Henry seemed to easily pierce through the wood that confined Dorian and his remains. He held his breath, straining to hear his friend on the outside.

"_The crime in Dorian's tragic passing is not that he was robbed of youth. He had youth for the entirety of his life, which is a gift of God and a blessing. But he made good that gift and lived his life as none of us dare. Many have tried to tarnish his name with disgraceful hearsay of sinful nights spent at the docks, or his hand in the downward spiral of many previously distinguished individuals. But why should I stand here and deny or confirm those rumors for poor Dorian now that he can no longer speak for himself? Be they true or false, those rumors will cement him in history. They will leave a lasting portrait of a man whose life burnt brightly and was not wasted…_"

Lord Henry's voice became somewhat distant and Dorian struggled to hear more. Was he even still there? Panic seized Dorian and for the first time he attempted to move. His hand hit the silken roof of his box, knocking it loudly.

"Harry!" his voice croaked with weakness.

A dead silence suddenly fell around his box, but he did not stop in his struggle. Kicking his legs now, he pushed with all of his might on the ceiling of his coffin. There was a weight atop it, but the more he pushed, the easier it became as the object on top slid off and crashed to the marble floor.

Screams echoed out and the sound of a stampede could be heard just as the lid to his coffin was thrown open. He sat up, but the light blinded him and he had to shield his pained eyes with one hand.

"Harry?" he sobbed amongst the screams.

"The Devil's work!" a man shouted.

"A demon!"

"In the name of Jesus Christ, return whence you came!"

"I'm not a demon!" Dorian cried, his eyes squinting as he tried to see the speakers. "Help me!"

More shouts to God were uttered, and there followed only a few stomping steps as the last person fled. The light felt like a razor in each eye, but he at last gained some focus from where he sat in the silken casket. Stretching out from him were the rows of benches, behind them the open door that allowed the sunlight to pour in. Towards his feet was the podium, the Bible still cradled on top of it. And scattered on the ground around his box were the beautiful flowers that he had pushed from the lid.

What held his gaze, however, was the tall object that stood beside his coffin. Framed elegantly and repaired to new condition was his portrait. On it was not the hideous thing that had chronicled his sins. Instead, it was the beautiful face that tempted him into selling his soul that fateful day.

This was all a misunderstanding! He was not dead after all! He could not blame his friends for fleeing out of fear, but he needed to let them know that he was alive and well. He was given a second chance, somehow, by God to live a good life! His body was weak, but he had enough strength in him to crawl out of the casket. It was not a graceful crawl, mind, but it was graceful enough to land him on his feet and not his face.

Unsteadily, he followed the aisle between the benched towards that open door where he still heard the crying and confusion as they gathered outside. No one seemed to dare to enter, so he would have to go to them and reassure them that he was not a ghost!

A hand rose to shield the unforgiving sun from his sensitive face as he stepped into day. He could see the crowd, shrouded in their black funeral clothes, but he could not yet distinguish any faces. They immediately shrunk away from him in one giant living mass.

"Please!" he cried pitifully.

Their fear was tearing him apart inside. He wanted them to rejoice that he was alive, not curse it! Amongst the crowd, he spied one unique set of attire. It was black, like the others, but upon the buttonhole of the breast was a glowing violet. That was Lord Henry, he was sure of it!

"Harry!" He reached for his friend pleadingly, needing his mentor more than ever. "I don't know why they're afraid… I'm alive, Harry!" He laughed nervously as he tried to choke back his tears.

Harry didn't flee. Instead, he stood erect as Dorian shuffled towards him. But when Dorian's hand reached for him, Lord Henry let out a horrified shout and recoiled instantly.

"Keep away you disgusting creature! Return to Hell!"

It was then, as he reached for his friend, that he at last looked upon his own hand. He did not recognize it. The hand was marred by the pallor of death, the skin pulled tightly over the bones of his knuckles where his ring was worn loosely. He forgot about the terrified people around him as he looked to his hand, turning it over to see the equally horrid palm. If his palm had withered… then what of his prized face?

Immediately he brought that disgusting hand to his cheek, then his lips, then his nose. There were none! His once full cheeks were sallow, his lips nonexistent and his nose nothing but a hole. He did not need to see it. To touch such an awful thing was more than enough.

This time, he was the one who screamed with terror, his hands coming to his face as he turned and ran. He did not look where he was going. He only wanted to get away. The crowd easily parted to let him run through, and with his legs kicking madly, he ran. He ran into the streets of London with only the thought that he was now a hideous living corpse.


	3. 3 Shadow of Eros

3.

SHADOW OF EROS

Hatred and spite had kept his calloused heart beating from the day that his poor unhappy mother threw his first mask at him. Love was a strange thing of fiction, like Utopia or perhaps Heaven and he did not rely upon it to persevere. It did not exist for him… until he heard her sing. She was only a child when he first heard her voice and from then she and her talent were molded by his artful hands. And as she grew, so did his love for her.

This love was bewildering, but most of all it was maddening. He did not know how to use that new feeling that flowed through his heart and soul, and in his fear of losing it, he nearly destroyed everything. He nearly destroyed her.

But she was the quintessence of goodness and purity, and to save the life of her pitiful lover, that young and handsome vicomte, she promised herself to him. It was not an empty and desperate promise, but one that she intended to fulfill. She promised to be his wife if it only meant saving the other. A living wife, not an empty shell. It made his poor confused heart tear itself in two and he could not bear to see that light go from her beautiful eyes. As his bride, she would inevitably join him in his living death… He had to let her go.

That was his painful lesson in love and he could not bear to live with the ever bleeding wounds of it. She was his muse, his love, his angel… and he had given her to a man less deserving of her, but whom she deserved. Such a sacrifice was the final nail in the rotted coffin of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.

He welcomed the cold breath of death like a weed welcomes the rain. Food and rest were abandoned and he toiled endlessly to rid himself of practically all earthly items. The home on the lake that he had prided himself in was emptied. The furniture, art, and décor were all sold to the highest bidder. The money gained from it was sent to his acquaintance, the Persian. He was, after all, the closest to a friend that Erik had in his poor existence.

All that was left in his damp house beneath the Opera House was a single small table, two candlesticks, his beloved organ and one painting. The painting portrayed a romantic mythological scene of Eros and Psyche, when the winged beauty whisked the mortal woman to his abode. Like Erik, Eros concealed himself in the darkness with every intention of keeping himself hidden from the woman he loved. And like Christine, Psyche betrayed him with her curiosity and looked upon his face. But Erik did not have the blessing of a gorgeous face. He was cursed with a face to make Death proud.

Withering slowly away, Erik could sense his own death. He crawled to the foot of his organ, breathing the last of his hoarse breaths with a blessing where lips would be. She promised to come back when he was dead… and he longed for it. He fell into the chilled embrace of death, a sweet blackness overwhelming him and easing the pain that tormented his soul. For even the briefest moment, he forgot about his miserable life. For an instant, he even blissfully forgot about Christine.

Eternal peace seemed upon him at last, when he was suddenly enveloped by an unbearable heat. Flames engulfed his body, wrenching him into life with their hellish tongues. It was not a physical burn; it was a searing of his entire being. Damnation had caught up to him.

_Do not forgive us our sins, but smite us for our iniquities!_

A desperate voice screamed out from everywhere and nowhere. This burning seemed to last a lifetime before it suddenly stopped. He was plunged back into a cold blackness, and he felt suddenly confined. He could feel again… There was a chill that sank into his bones, but he could not move. He was far too weak.

"Erik…" The voice of an angel breathed his name.

That was the last thing he remembered before his eyes opened to see a sunlit ceiling. It was painful to see and the mere action of blinking was an effort. But as he lay there, hearing the unmelodic songs of birds, coherent thought slowly returned to him and he took a deep breath. He was breathing. He was alive!

Most men would rejoice to find themselves alive, but hopelessness washed over him and he turned his head to find himself in a lovely little room. Why was he alive and where was he? He did not belong in the light of day, nor did he wish to breathe such fresh and fragrant air.

The sound of a door unlatching turned his heavy head and a woman in nurse's garb walked through with a small tray. She started when she saw him and gasped. Being seen reminded him of his loathsome flaw and his hands immediately came to his face. He could not get up and run, as he wished. Instead he could only manage to roll onto his side, his back firmly against the woman as he buried his face.

"Leave me be!" he groaned through his hands.

"Oh, monsieur!" she peeped. "I did not know you were awake!" There was a slight clamor as she set down the tray somewhere. "I will inform His Lordship immediately!"

He could not know who she was referring to. Having only the wish to die, he did not even care to flee. If the Sûreté had found him at last, then he would give himself up to be hanged. A rope, after all, would be divine justice indeed. Fatigue almost made him slip back into a slumber, his hands firmly over his face with shame, but the sound of the door opening stirred him awake once more. There were some whispered exchanged before the footsteps entered the room and paused once more beside the bed.

"Monsieur?" A man's voice said calmly.

"Why have you brought me here?" Erik groaned through his protective hands. "You stole me from my final resting place…"

"You tried to commit suicide?" the man asked with a hint of surprise. "That would account for your state… but why were you in the cellars of the Paris Opera? How did you get there?"

"Are the answers to such questions necessary when I am to be condemned regardless? Let me die!"

"Condemned?" a flippant chuckle was issued and the voice of the man moved as he seemed to seat himself beside the bed. "No one is going to condemn you here, monsieur. And I refuse to assist anyone in suicide. Who are you?"

His name? He had many, that much was certain, but to give it now seemed a farce. "I am the distorted shadow of Eros… I am a fallen angel with no Heaven to serve or Hell to rule… I am my own dirge never to be heard…"

A silence fell as the stranger was without an immediate reply to the cryptic response. A few more whispers sounded, between whom, Erik did not care to discern. Finally, the man spoke again.

"If you have a name, we could perhaps contact friends or kin for you. There is no doubt many people worried for you…"

"My name… is Death…"

A half silly laugh sounded from the stranger. He obviously was not taking any of this seriously, and the chair creaked slightly as he stood to his feet. "Well, M. Death, you are welcome to stay here as our guest until you are returned to health."

He could be heard moving towards the door. With some summoned strength, Erik lifted his head slightly, but would not turn to face him. "If you are not the police… Then who are you that shows such foolish kindness?"

"I am the Comte de Chagney. Rest well, monsieur…"

There was a delay when Erik heard the name. It could not be true! When he at last dared to turn, his hand still over his face (but not his eyes) he watched as the door latched shut once more. The nurse, however, with her distinctive white hat, was smiling brightly at him. He found himself staring back at her. Perhaps she was smiling to hide her fear? It was a mockery and he could feel that familiar icy burn of bitterness begin to boil deep down.

"Your ticket was not too pricey I hope?" he spoke through the hand that concealed his face.

Confusion quickly wiped away her smile. "Ticket, monsieur?"

"To come see the Living Corpse. I hope your need to see ugliness has been satisfied."

Her confusion increased for a moment before a twittering laugh escaped her. "Oh, monsieur, you are funny! We thought you were close to death, to be sure, but I could not even call you ugly as a jest!" Here, she did something that he had only seen from afar and never towards him. She blushed. "I've never seen anyone so handsome, if I may be so bold…"

She had to be making a mockery of him. There was no other explanation, and it filled him with rage.

"Handsome?" he repeated the word spitefully. "We will see how perceptive you are when I have burned your eyes out with acid!"

She gasped and stepped back towards the door.

"Away!" he cried out at her, his voice hoarse and painful as it tore through his throat. "Be gone or dance in the air with your neck tethered to a cord!"

With a terrified cry, she flew out of the room in a blink. He could hear her calling out for the Comte. Erik sank back into the bed wearily, his chest heaving from the emotions that riddled him. What was this madness he was enduring? Not once had anyone spoke to him in a choked tone to keep their disgust in check. Not once did anyone speak to him fearfully as though he was a ghost.

For the first time in perhaps the entirety of his life, he wished to see a mirror. He avoided any form of looking glass as though they were poison to him, but he needed to see what they were seeing. He needed to confirm either their madness or his own.

With trembling limbs, he slid out of the soft bed, bare feet touching the rug of the floor. There was a large mirror atop a bureau across the room. It was angled towards the ceiling, so as he approached, he could not yet see himself. One hand rested upon the wooden surface to hold him upright, his malnourished legs in danger of giving out from under him. With his free hand, he reached for the mirror, but hesitated. He dreaded to see the face that prevented his happiness, but it was his own face nonetheless. At last, he pushed the bottom of the mirror to tilt it downward just enough for his reflection to appear.

The eyes were not his hollow and black own. They were blue and sparkling with youth. His skin was not a leprous yellow strewn tightly over protruding bone. It was soft, lush, and pale without even the smallest freckle. Where he had lacked lips to conceal jagged teeth were thin, pink lips over perfect pearls. And his hair, which had always been thin and wiry, was now full and silken. It was not a living corpse that looked back at him. It was a handsome boy.

Disbelieving, he raised a hand to touch his face. The reflection did the same. The hands were not boney, they were elegant. He touched the perfect nose that centered the perfect face, the sensation of such a facial protrusion completely new to him. But what shocked him the most was that he knew this face. It was not completely foreign to him. It was the same face of Eros from the painting he had once admired. The face he had painfully wished was his own.

_What was this hellish dream? The_ weakness returned all at once, throwing him into a swoon. Blackness was around him once more, and he fell to the floor unconscious.


	4. 4 Streets of London

4.

STREETS OF LONDON

He didn't know how long he was there. Any conscious sense of time had been lost the moment he ran from the church where his funeral was being held. He ran through London, his hands over his wasted face until he came to a dank and isolated alleyway. He sank onto the filthy ground, regardless of his pristine burial suit of slate gray. His hands, such as they were, seemed to be fastened to his face.

With his knees near his face, his boney fingers continuously trailed over the new lines of his once unchanging face. He could feel the tight skin of his hollowed cheeks… the deep lines that ran from where his nose should have been to the edge of his mouth where his lips should have been. And his teeth… oh the teeth felt like poorly set pebbles of varying shapes and sizes!

This could not be reality… the feeling of such an ugly face outweighed the sensation of Hell's flames. Was he at last wearing the face of his soul that had spent the last eighteen years on cursed canvas? If he could only laugh it off as an impossibility… But just as impossible was staying 21 for eighteen years. This was a reckoning and there would be no escaping it now.

When he at last thought to open his eyes, to peer up from the grimy ground of the alley, he realized that it was now night time. He could not stay here... For a moment he considered going home to Mayfair. But the thought of walking through Grosvenor Square with the face of a corpse terrified him. Mrs. Leaf, the housekeeper, and Francis would not allow him admittance anyway. How could they recognize their own master in such a guise?

There were many at his funeral, he saw, but as he racked his brain, he could not think of enough friends to whom he could turn to. Harry was the only friend he had left, but he was too ashamed to face him with this new hideousness. After all, it was Harry who taught him that youth and beauty were the only two things worth having in this world, and now Dorian had neither. But he could think of nowhere else to go. Perhaps if he could shroud his disgusting face and only speak to Harry without being seen… Maybe then he would have a chance to beseech him.

It wasn't until he cautiously crept from the black alley that he discovered he had no idea where he was. He did not know the church in which he fled, nor did he look at any surrounding architecture to find his way. He would need more clothes for concealing his horrid appearance, and so he would use a tactic that he had employed in the past when stumbling from an opium den with his mind fogged and his clothes half missing… He was going to steal some.

As he slinked between the lampposts, remaining in the shadows as much as possible, he at last came to a gin shop. He had been to many, probably more than half of the ones that occupied London, but this one had no familiarity. Regardless, he pushed himself into a shadow near the door and waited. He waited until he was sure he could move without being noticed.

When that time came, he entered only as far as the coat rack where there hanged hats and cloaks for his choosing. Though he was in a terrible plight, there was patience and calmness enough in him to make certain that whatever cloak he snatched had a matching hat. He did not want to draw unnecessary attention by dressing like a fool.

The cloak was of dark tweed, the color impossible to make out in the dim light of the distant lampposts. The hat was wide brimmed, and as far as he could tell, of a matching hue to the cloak. Taking them swiftly, he vanished into the night once again without so much as a word uttered his way. Pulling the hat low on his head, he threw the cloak over his shoulders and turned up the collar with every attempt to shield his face from prying eyes. He did not even want to see his own face and would not subject the rest of the world to it either…

He walked for an hour before he began to recognize the street. He was in the West End, not far from Hyde Park. He could find Lord Henry's house from here, without a doubt! A glimmer of hope rose within him as he pushed on down the damp sidewalk. He was weary and tired; the frights and pains of the day more than sufficient to exhaust even the most steadfast of men.

When he came to the door, he did not hesitate a moment. With his hideous, skeletal hand (which he didn't dare to look at) he rapped the large brass knocker of the door. No sooner had he let go of the knocker did her return the hand to a tight clasp at the collar of his stolen cloak to conceal his face and turn his face towards the shadows from the porch lamp.

It was a long wait before the door was opened by Harry's butler Tobias, who was wrapped in a shoddy robe and held an oil lamp in one hand.

"Yes, sir?" the middle aged butler asked groggily, but as properly as he could.

"I must see Harry," Dorian murmured discreetly. "Please. I realize he must be sleeping, but tell him it is a matter of-" He cut himself off before uttering the cliché of _life and death._ That would never interest the likes of Lord Henry enough to get out of bed in the middle of the night. "Tell him that a friend's soul depends upon him alone."

"Sir..?" Tobias squinted into the dark, obviously not trusting his own ears.

"Tell him, Tobias! I shall wait here."

"But sir," the servant shook his head. "Lord Henry Wotton is not at home. He left this evening for Paris. He had a trying day, besides, regarding the horrific incident at the funeral service for Mr. Gray…"

Dorian cringed as the latter statement was uttered. To hear his name spoken in the same sentence with 'funeral' sent a chill through him. "When… when will he return?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir. He could be there for a matter of months, depending on how swiftly he can complete his business."

"What business?"

"Oh, I would rather not share the affairs of my employer, sir… That's all I can tell you I'm afraid."

"Thank you, Tobias…" Dorian's voice came out so meekly that he could barely be heard. Turning, he began to walk back towards the street once more.

"Ah, who shall I say called, sir?" Tobias' voice called after him.

Dorian's step faltered for only a moment. He could not leave his name. He was dead to the world. Instead, he tried to feign deafness and continued walking without giving the sleepy butler a reply. He walked but had no destination in mind. Never had he ever felt so alone. He had no one and nothing. Not even his name. He was less than what he had reduced Basil to…

He eventually found himself in the open space of Hyde Park, and when he reached a bench, he slowly sank into it like a child would its mother's lap. But there was no such comforting feeling. It was hard and cold. He didn't even have a mother to turn to. Quietly, he began to cry within the fabric of his stolen cloak, and he could feel the tears following a foreign path down his deathly face. He was hideous and alone, so why couldn't he consider suicide?

There was once a girl who killed herself for his sake… Poor Sybil was the true tragic heroine that she had so often portrayed in her short years of living. But for Dorian to kill himself? That would have been the ultimate act of vanity and selfishness, for he would have committed suicide for his own sake. Suicide was too romantic an end for something like him. At least, that was the philosophical rationale he tried to employ with the voice of Harry in his head. The humiliating truth of it was that he was a coward, even in this degraded state. He had stared at Death in its black eyes and felt its cold embrace, but he simply did not have the courage to face oblivion again.


	5. 5 You Don't Know Me?

5. "YOU… DON'T KNOW ME?"

The music was faint in her mind, echoing like the distant chimes of the churchyard. The notes were distinct, yet difficult to hear as her eyes trailed over the music sheet. It was one of Chopin's nocturnes that she had memorized but would not play even as she sat at the piano. Music was part of her, but she dared not sing or play lest it should evoke feelings that she hoped to bury.

"Christine?" Raoul's voice gently came from the doorway on the other side of the music room.

She lifted her head to smile to him as he walked towards her, and she quickly replaced the music onto the piano.

"Is our guest awake yet?"

"Yes," Raoul replied, then gave a small smile. "Though I'm afraid he isn't much for conversation."

He seated himself beside her on the piano bench, his legs on the opposite side of it as he looked lovingly, but worriedly at her. "Christine… You know as well as I do that I haven't asked you 'why' yet, but I must ask now."

He did not need to elaborate for her to know that he was referring to her visit to the cellars of the Opera House. She tore her gaze away from him ashamedly, looking distractedly to the keys of the piano.

"I know I shouldn't have gone without telling you, Raoul…"

"But why did you?" his voice strained slightly as he fought with his temper. He had become cross with her more than once for her strange ways, but he never frightened her. He was far too gentle and naïve.

"I needed to see him for myself… I'm sorry."

"Was he there?"

This at last brought her to look at her husband again, a twinge of unknown fear sparking within. "No. There was only that young man."

That twinge of fear suddenly seemed to glimmer in Raoul's eyes, but tenfold. The uncertainty of the Phantom's death clearly chased away whatever easiness the young Comte had attained in the past three weeks. His brother Philippe's body had been found on the edge of the lake on the Rue-Scribe side, and Christine knew it must have occurred to Raoul as well that this mysterious young man's predicament was brought on by the boney hands of Erik. Though his brow was furrowed from the rekindled worry, he brought a hand to rest warmly over her own.

"That is all the more reason that you cannot sneak out in the middle of the night, Christine. I need to know that you are safe."

She offered the most reassuring smile that she could conjure and placed her other hand over his. "I won't do it again, Raoul. I promise."

They then shared a brief but tender kiss which was interrupted by the heavy breathing of the nurse who came scurrying in.

"Your Lordship!" she huffed. "He threatened me! I paid him a compliment and he said he would burn out my eyes with acid!"

"Acid?" Raoul had to repeat the obscure threat. With a glance to his young wife, he rose from the piano bench. "Is he still in bed?"

"He is, but now I'm too petrified to bring him his breakfast!"

This made Raoul crack a small smile. "I'll go with you then, Ivette." Turning, he bent forward and placed a kiss on Christine's cheek. "I will be back shortly, Little Lotte."

But Christine seized his hand and pushed herself to her feet. "I'd like to come."

Her request was simple, and when she gave a lovely smile, Raoul acquiesced. With her hand in his, they walked through the large house towards the guest's room. Ivette, meanwhile, went her own way to fetch the tray of breakfast. As they approached the room's ajar door, it was deathly silent inside. Raoul, almost out of instinct, approached the door first. It was carefully pushed open as he peered inside.

"Ivette!" he suddenly shouted over his shoulder, causing Christine to start.

Letting go of her hand, he moved briskly into the room. He didn't go towards the bed, he went for the bureau, for it was there that their guest was lying unconscious. With some effort, the young Comte hoisted the unconscious man back into the bed head first, then his feet. Christine watched from the doorway, a hand clutching the wooden frame.

"Is he all right?" she asked quietly as she looked to the paled face of the stranger.

"He's alive…" Raoul breathed. He was somewhat short of breath from the process of moving the other man, but he was quickly calm again as he straightened his frock coat and moved around the bed. "If we could learn his name, we could return him to his family. We've had enough excitement to last a lifetime…"

There was annoyance in his voice, she could tell. Over the past few weeks, Raoul had made it pointedly clear that he wanted nothing more than peace and quiet. As much recovery as possible from his hours and days spent at the mercy of a madman.

Christine's eyes fastened to the mysterious and unconscious young man. He truly was handsome, but there was something more. Something… unearthly. With timorous steps, she crept nearer to the bed to stand beside her husband and look more closely at the stranger. He was twitching ever so slightly, a light groan escaping from him like one being plagued by nightmares.

"Poor soul…" she whispered and coiled her arm around Raoul's. "What could possibly have made him so unhappy?"

The stranger stirred and suddenly opened his eyes. Immediately his gaze settled on her, his eyes widening ever so slightly and his lips parting. His heart was almost visibly beating out of his chest as he stared at her.

"You came…" he said weakly. And in the corners of his eyes appeared tears.

The words and his behavior frightened her instantly as his voice recalled to her that grievous and hideous face of Erik.

"Who are you?" she asked instantly.

"You… don't know me?" he said hoarsely. A quaking hand came to his cheek to trail the tips of his fingers over his face and lips. "You don't know me…" he repeated with a tone of epiphany.

Raoul's existence was suddenly remembered as he whispered into her ear. "He may be delusional. I don't think he's quite recovered…"

Ivette at last returned with the meal, her tiny feet carrying her quickly to the bed. "If you are going to be polite, monsieur, I have your breakfast for you. You will be able to regain some strength if you eat something."

"I hope you will eat, monsieur," Raoul said. "You would put us in an awkward position if you refused our help."

The man, however, was unresponsive as his eyes flickered continuously between Raoul and Christine. His eyes were as beautiful as gems, but she felt she sensed a hint of fire within them.

"It was my wife who found you," Raoul continued, his hand touching Christine's as it held his arm. "For her sake, perhaps, you will eat something?"

The man had been regaining some color to his youthful face, but it suddenly paled once more. "You… you petty wretch… You should have left me to my death… I would have gladly done the same for you…" Quietly at first, then with gradual vivacity, he began to laugh. "This is torture in return for torture!"

Christine tightened her grip on Raoul as she looked to the poor man. He was beside himself as the tears filled his eyes and the anguish was so powerful that she too could almost feel it.

"We wish to help you, not torture you," Raoul continued in his attempt to reassure, but he was obviously running out of ideas.

Those beautiful but dangerous eyes burrowed into them, landing more heavily on Raoul. "The very sight of you is more torture than I can bear…"

"I told you, monsieur!" Ivette whispered to the Comte. "He is quite cruel!"

Christine could take it no more. Anxiety was seizing her and she wanted nothing more than to be out of that room and out of the gaze of that stranger. "Let's leave him to rest, Raoul…" she whispered. "Let's leave…"

"Yes, leave!" spat the weakened stranger. "Stop punishing me with your presence! I've sung my own requiem, now let me die!"

This seemed to be enough for Raoul to at last leave the room, Christine held closely at his side. Though Raoul's strong arm around her was comforting, she could not dismiss the terrible, and familiar, fear that was evoked within her from the stranger's eyes and unusual words.


	6. 6 Paint and Flame

6. PAINT AND FLAME

At first, Dorian had decidedly stayed away from his house in Mayfair. But, being alone and cold in the streets of London, he felt the pang of desperation and gradually resolved to return one last time. A part of him wanted to say farewell to the many fascinating and beautiful things he had acquired throughout his life, but the majority of his being wanted to claim what few things he felt he needed to survive. Namely money and clothes that were not shoddy and ill fitting. Just because his face and body were hideous, that was no reason why his attire had to be.

When he felt certain that the servants were all in bed, he made his way through the dark towards the front door. In the past he sometimes found himself without a latch-key and would be forced to wake Francis or Victor (his previous valet) in order to let him in. However, in his many adventures in degradation and sin, he developed up the useful skill of picking locks. He never mastered it perfectly, mind, but he was able to open a simple lock with enough tries.

Mutilating the pins from his funeral buttonhole, he wiggled and jabbed them in the keyhole of the place he once called home, his boney fingers working rather clumsily in the dark. When at last the door clicked open, he silently pushed it and crept inside.

The house was silent as a grave inside, save for the ticking of clocks. Using memory more than his eyes, he made his way to the library. It was always his favorite room in the house, since it held the corruptive literature that had shaped his twisted personality, as well as a few secret compartments that had proven convenient on more than one occasion. (Such as holding the damning evidence of Basil Hallward's belongings the night that he "disappeared.")

The secret press in the wainscoting was unlocked and opened, revealing an array of disguises that he made plenty of use of in the streets of London. He looked upon them not more than a matter of weeks ago, but after recent horrors, it seemed like years. He took from the cupboard a thick, wool scarf of a walnut color, as well as a wide brimmed hat. These had served him in the past for hiding his face from curious eyes, and once again they would serve him well, but for different reasons. Though he was alone, he immediately pulled the hat low on his head and wrapped the scarf around the lower part of his permanently sneering face. It felt like he was at last dressing a wound, and a hint of relief could be felt at the concealment. Locking the press once more, he crept back into the foyer.

The tiniest sound from his own feet made his heart leap from his chest, but he scurried on through the darkness, gliding up the stairs to his bedroom. Once inside, he found it eerily empty and cold. There had been no reason for Mrs. Leaf to light to fire in his room since there was no longer a master to make comfortable. He was dead to the world, and the thought brought the stinging of tears to his eyes. But this was no time for weeping. He was no better than a fugitive and had to keep moving.

He remembered that he had a few bank notes stashed in his writing desk. He had planned, the day following his unfortunate death, to send money to a certain acquaintance as a bribe of silence. It was one of the many fees he had to pay in life. The money was right where he had left it, folded neatly behind one of the tiny drawers of the desk. There was no need to count it then. He knew it amounted up to one hundred and fifty pounds. The handful of money was shoved into his coat pocket and he turned to leave the house as quietly as he came. But when he turned, a dark figure across the room startled him and nearly made him scream.

When his heart ceased to pound in his ears, he realized that he was gazing upon his own reflection. It was the large, full-body mirror that he had dressed in front of every day, and it was this very moment that it occurred to him he had not gazed upon his reflection since his woeful resurrection. At the moment, he appeared as nothing more than a shadow, the dim light of the gas lamps outside silhouetting his body against the curtained window.

Fear began to grow within him as he thought of seeing himself. Feeling the horrid lines and creases was dreadful enough. Could he bear to soil his eyes with such a disgusting image? That was a redundant thought, for he had looked upon that gruesomeness for the past eighteen years on the enchanted canvas. It was breathing and tangible now. And curiosity was beginning to manipulate his body into pulling him closer to the looking glass, a hand reaching for the oil lamp and matches nearby.

It was a mere match, but when it was struck, the room exploded with light and with trembling hands he brought its flame to the lamp. Adjusting the size of the flame, he glanced timidly to his reflection, as the glass was now only a breath away. His eyes were shadowed by the tilt of his hat against the firelight and the scarf sufficiently concealed everything from the nose down. But already he could see the blackness where his eyes should have been and the yellow tinted parchment that should have been skin.

His cursed portrait never had such eyes… It always looked out at him with a judging, yet encouraging glare. Its eyes were always livid and bright with the glimmer of madness and a glaze of age. But the eyes that he peered with now were empty holes of oblivion, bearing only the slightest of red sparks somewhere within. This difference aroused his curiosity even more, bringing one hand to clutch at the scarf and pull it slowly down to his chin.

Where his nose had once been was blackness. The cheekbones protruded with coarse skin stretched over them. Thin skin was strewn over his teeth where his lips to serve as lips, and there was almost an indelible smile of jagged teeth. The sight made him shake uncontrollably, the urge to scream, vomit, cry, faint and laugh all cancelling each other out and leaving him in a gaping stupor. He looked nothing like his corrupted portrait! It was no less horrifying, but it was a different face entirely!

Finally, as his shoulders jerked with laughs or sobs (not even he knew) a rage came over him. Just when he resolved to be good in life, he was suddenly stricken to wear the face of his soul. Where was the justice in that? How was he ever to redeem himself now that he looked like the devil himself? He knew not who to be angry at- Fate, God, Satan, or himself- but the anger consumed him nonetheless. The lamp in his hand was hurled at the mirror, shattering both the looking glass and the lamp. The oil rained down with the shards, and the fire erupted all around the elaborate frame of the mirror.

The fire should have frightened him or upset him as it quickly began to eat away at his house and belongings, but he felt strangely cold inside. The only panic that seized him was the sudden remembrance of his portrait. The last time he looked upon it was with the utmost hate, but now the notion of letting it be destroyed terrified him. Bolting from the growing flames, he didn't bother to keep silent as he ran quickly and found the old schoolroom. A day did not pass by that he didn't keep it locked, when he was living. But when he tested it now, it was open.

Rushing into the darkness of the room, he could see the ghostly image of a lovely boy's face looking out from a canvas. It was his face. The one that he had sold his soul to keep for an eternity… And keep it he shall! Without a second thought, he tore the canvas from its golden frame and rolled it as tightly as he could. Putting it under his arm, he scurried back the way he came, never thinking twice about the rest of the furnishings or items in the house.

Those things no longer belonged to him anyway, so why should he care if they were destroyed? The fire had only just begun to lick its way from his bedroom when he fled instantly from the house. He did not run far though. He went only a few feet into the fog of Grosvenor Square before he tucked himself into the shadow of a neighboring house and pressed his back to the cold wall. He clutched the rolled canvas tightly as if it was a newborn babe rescued from the hellish fire.

It wasn't long before there were shouts regarding the growing fire, and the smell of the smoke began to burn his nostrils (or what you could call nostrils.) Among the voices, he recognized Mrs. Leaf and Francis. It was fortunate for them that they were not going to perish in the flames with the belongings of the late Dorian Gray, but Dorian himself would not have batted an eye if they had. Why should he care about others when his own life had become such despair? He found that the only thing that could evoke emotion from him was the very thing that he now held closely and had hated as much as he loved it: His portrait.


	7. 7 Gabriel de Tophet

7. GABRIEL DE TOPHET

The household had fallen quiet as everyone retired to bed. But Erik, who had rested little during the daylight hours, was more awake than ever when darkness fell. For it was the darkness where he was the most alive. By his firm request, the nurse was sent from his room. He did not want to be looked at, even if there was no one recoiling with fear.

Instead, he would be his own judge. With a small oil lamp, he stared at his ghostly reflection for countless hours. The smooth cheeks and silky hair never faded away. The stench of death and the pallor or parchment did not return to him. He did not look normal, now… he looked almost divine. But how could mere wishing provide him with the face and physique that he had longed for over the decades as he looked upon that painting of Eros?

As he stared at himself and continuously touched his new face, he began to consider the permanency of his appearance. He was no longer a "living corpse." He now had a face worthy of her. A face that he would not deny was more perfect than the little vicomte's ever hoped to be. Or _Comte_ rather, since the boy had risen in the ranks upon his brother Philippe's 'unfortunate' demise in the lake beneath the Paris Opera… Raoul was now more distinguished, but he was still less than remarkable in comparison to the genius of Erik!

And as he realized this, his feelings of self-destruction and suicide were replaced with feelings of opportunity… and revenge. He had not lost his talent and wit, and with this new pleasant façade, he would be unstoppable. The world could willingly place itself at his feet. And Christine would willingly give her heart to him for he could give her the one thing that the little vicomte never could: _Music_.

Erik had died in those cellars and now he was beginning a new life. But he would need a new name in order to begin a new life. The excitement of it all filled him to the brim and he did not sleep a minute that fateful night, his calculated and often unhinged mind hard at work to devise where to go from this bizarre first step.

He was not unfamiliar with wringing benefit from unexpected happenstance, and more than ever his driving goal was Christine. He had given her up to the man she claimed to love, but now he felt he had a fighting chance. Not only did he have a face that was _pleasurable_ to look at, he was graced with a clean slate that was not tainted with blood and misery.

Suddenly, the elevating music of impending triumph flooded into his brain and tingled to his fingertips. It was renewed inspiration to compose and a feeling he had never completely experienced before called a love of life. The world would be at his feet.

Morning came, and as the sun poked its luminous head over the rooftops of Paris, Christine and Raoul sat at their breakfast with a quiet contentment. Raoul, once again, was poring over another letter that was delivered by hand that morning. As his eyes trailed over the ink, a small smile began to appear.

Christine, however, took little notice of his cheerful face as she distractedly sipped her tea. Though she sat there with her husband, her mind was in the room where she had last beheld their mysterious guest, the image of his eyes piercing her even in memory.

"Oh, Sweet Fleur…" Raoul's voice drew her attention.

Christine smiled as she easily remembered Fleur. She was one of two sisters who had raised Raoul with tender affections. She met both of his sisters just over a week ago at the funeral of poor Philippe. The late Comte had a multitude more friends than he did family, and though there were undertones of disapproval for the artistic and bohemian friends that Philippe seemed to collect, Christine was accepted warmly as Raoul's new bride. Though, their decision to elope was questioned with a hint of scrutiny. But how could they have known the nightmare that was endured within the Paris Opera House?

"How is Fleur?" Christine gently broke the silence as Raoul continued to read the letter.

A moment was stolen to read the last few lines of the letter and he lowered it to take up his coffee. "She's doing very well. She writes that she intends to call this afternoon…" he trailed off for a moment as a thought seemed to dawn on him. "Do you suppose she'll know who our guest is? She knows almost everyone in Parisian and English society combined, if not personally, at least by name and face."

But Christine shrank slightly in her chair. "Does she have to know he's here?"

He looked to her curiously. "Why keep him a secret?"

She lightly fiddled with the two rings on her finger, her eyes downcast. "Your Aunt Eva… I could tell that she did not like me. She wanted you to marry a well-bred girl, not an opera singer."

"Christine…" he softly tried to interject with ready words of comfort.

"I worry for you, Raoul. If they ask how the stranger came to be here, it will be mentioned that it was my doing. That I'd broken my promise to you and went out at night alone."

"They don't need to be told the truth," he laughed lightly in hopes of cheering her. "Are you truly that concerned about what others think?"

"Paris loves scandal, Raoul… That is the first thing we learn at the opera, because it is scandal that brings people to the box office. I want to be a wife now. I want to make you proud as the Comtesse de Chagny."

His coffee was set aside before his hand reached across the small table, his palm up as he silently asked for her hand. Instinctively, she gave it to him.

"You could never do otherwise, dearest… We love each other and we are married. That is all that matters now." He gave her dainty hand a light squeeze. "If you wish it, then we will make no mention of our guest. He may be in better spirits this morning and may introduce himself-"

"Your Lordship!"

There was a distinct feeling of déjà vu as Ivette came rushing into the room, her face flushed from a quick run through the house.

"What is it, Ivette?" Raoul was already on his feet, his napkin pulled from his lap and dropped atop the table.

"The young man! He's gone!"

This news brought the three of them to move briskly for the guest room. This time the young man was not on the floor and the bed was immaculately made. The room did not look as though it had housed any guest at all. It was as though he was never there in the first place. Nonetheless, Raoul made a quick sweep of the room, circling the bed and glancing into the bathroom. With a look of bewilderment, he shook his head to the two women.

"Gone!" he breathed.

His eyes glanced about the room once more, and from where he stood, he spied a piece of paper atop the bureau. Taking it, he straightened out the creases of its perfect fold. Immediately, he read it aloud.

"'Comte de Chagny… Yesterday, I had acted absurdly in regards to your generosity and hospitality. I humbly apologize for my rudeness, for I was stricken with a grief that had passed in the night here in your peaceful home. I hope that my misery did not infect you and your charming wife… By the time you will read this missive, I shall be gone. But do not fret on my account. The malady that drove me to seek death is now a long forgotten dream as I am now renewed to life. I will have returned home directly upon leaving yours. Thank you for your kindness… Gabriel de Tophet.'"

Upon reading the signature at the bottom of the letter, they exchanged glances. The stranger had a name after all, but it was in no way familiar to any of them.

"Gone as quickly as he came…" Raoul mused out loud with a glance to the paper. "But at least he left us with a name, if nothing else."


	8. 8 Streets of Paris

8. STREETS OF PARIS

Paris. It had once been an old friend to Dorian as it provided for him a world fraught with everything one needed to stimulate all the senses and therefore the soul. But as he crept into it during the bleak dusk hours, the city had never seemed so unfriendly. He was now aware of new dangers and unwelcoming places that were not as forgiving and generous as they were to young handsome boys. There could be no mercy for a face like his. After all, he himself never would have forgiven such an atrocity on the earth.

He had stowed away on a barge that was travelling from London to Calais, carrying nothing more than the handful of money from his house and the rolled up painting. Where precisely he was going and what he was going to do in France, he did not even know. All he knew was that Lord Henry was in the city somewhere, and that was direction enough for him. He had a villa in Tourville, but it was nothing more than a second home that he could not return to.

He did not have enough money for a hotel room and wound up spending the night in a narrow alley where a few drunkards had piled up for the night. He hoped for luck that their intoxication would be enough to prevent them from even noticing him. That hope was more of an assumption as he let himself slip into a light doze against a rotted crate that smelled of old cabbage, and that light doze became a deep and much needed slumber.

A light tickle at his side woke him gradually. When he felt a tug at his pocket, however, he was roused instantly and he instantly seized a hand as it reached into his pocket. No sooner had he clutched the hand, however, did a set of knuckles plow across his boney cheek. His hat, which he had kept low on his brow, was knocked clear off.

In his daze, he could hear the attacker's footfalls come towards him, perhaps to snatch whatever he could and run. But the moment that Dorian turned to face him, the burly figure paused and started back.

"_Sacrebleau!_" a garbled voice cried out. "_Un diable!_"

Though it pained Dorian to be looked upon with such disgust, he was touched with relief as he expected the man to run away. Unfortunately, fear often behooves violence. The thief snatched the nearest object to come within his greedy grasp and lifted it over his head. It was one of the splintered boards of the rotted crates. In a panicked frenzy, he began to swing, the board pounding into Dorian's corpse-like heard and shoulders repeatedly.

Dorian's pleas never had a chance to be uttered before he was knocked half unconscious on the ground. His head was throbbing and spinning at once, his body cold from the muddy cobblestones beneath him and his skin burning from the array of infectious splinters that riddled it. The daze that he was left him made him only partially aware of the hands that dove into his pockets and pulled out the handful of British currency. Then, everything melted into black.

He awoke to the sound of a diseased coughing not far away. His body ached unbearably, his head wrapped in a stifling cloud as he pushed himself off the ground. It was with some difficulty that he remembered what happened. He was robbed by some random French beggar, and beaten for his ugliness. All of his money was taken…

The portrait!

A panicked cry escaped him and his eyes shot wide as he looked around himself. There, in a flattened roll, where he had been lying, was the painting. It had been lying in mud and treated no better than an old shoe. With care, he peeled it from the ground and pulled it close to himself. He needed to put it somewhere secure… Until he had a safe haven for himself, he could not protect his beloved and accursed portrait.

The sounds of frightened gasps and stifled yelps nearby made him realize that it was day. People, few as they were in that alleyway, could see him. He snatched his fallen hat from the dirty ground and pulled it tightly back onto his head before tugging the scarf over his nose and mouth. Without daring to glance in the direction of the onlookers, he clutched his painting and slinked from the alleyway.

It was rather surprising how easily he found his bearings in Paris in comparison to London. He recognized this shoddy street as one that he and Harry had frequented more than once in their many adventures together. From here, he knew exactly how to get to his friend's favorite hotel. There was no guarantee that Lord Henry would be there, but it was a place to start.


	9. 9 E'Strano!

9. E'STRANO!

It had been nearly three months since that strange, and hauntingly handsome, boy was found on the brink of death in the deepest cellar of the Opera House. The mystery around it, as well as the circumstances, made it difficult for Christine to put out of her mind. She and Raoul speculated about it, even wondering vaguely whether or not it had any form of connection with the presumably perished Phantom. But as the weeks, and eventually months, passed by the subject was forgotten.

Though this wonder nagged slightly at the back of her mind, it was slowly fading away. Not a word was ever heard about the strange Gabriel de Tophet and so his importance dwindled away. Most of her life had been spent in the Paris Opera but it was all transforming into a far off dream. Even her father's violin was becoming a thing of memory and imagination, but she couldn't dwell on losing that chapter of her life. She was becoming too tangled in this new chapter of being a comtesse and the endless parade of parties and social gatherings.

Raoul comforted her constantly, assuring her that she was perfect and had no one's approval to gain. But she knew she had to overcome her past as an opera singer. She was not high born like the other women in her class, and she could tell by their scrutinizing glances that they thought she married Raoul for his title. If they could only know the truth of it. How deeply she truly did love him ever since the day he fetched her scarf from the sea when they were mere children. If they could only know how bravely he risked his life to save her from a madman whose existence was a phantasm.

It was because of their silent judgments that she was dreading that night. For the first time in two months, she and Raoul were hosting a small dinner party. Among the guests would be his sister Fleur and her husband, as well as a multitude of other names pulled from the Paris blue book.

Already, at least half of their guests had arrived and were socializing quietly in the music room. The Marquise de St. Pelay was twiddling away some Liszt at the piano while her husband, the Marquis, bellowed an emphatic conversation with Raoul on the other side of the room. Christine was at Raoul's side, lightly holding his arm as they both held impressively solemn expressions while they listened to the man.

"And that is why, my young Comte, you should become less of a patron of the arts and more of a patron of politics! Art is undermining government and this bohemian ideal of opening our doors to foreign countries' art forms may as well open our doors to invaders and conquerors!" The man was making himself turn red in the face before he finally stopped for a breath.

"Surely, Marquis," Raoul took his chance to speak, "You don't think anyone could ever conquer France?"

"Of course not!" the Marquis de St. Pelay laughed. "In no time at all I am certain that France will be more powerful than even the British Empire! Assuming we are not destroyed by our own art…"

"It's only the destructive art that's worthwhile," a voice broke in, laced with the unmistakable accent of an Englishmen, though his French was fluent.

Christine had to lean to see past Raoul as the stranger approached. He was an older man, and very obviously a dandy as he wore a magnificent boutonniere in his lapel of yellow primroses. He smiled to the gentlemen and offered a hand to Raoul.

"Lord Henry Wotton."

Raoul did his utmost to conceal his bewilderment as he absently took the man's hand. "Comte de-"

"de Chagny," Lord Henry finished for him. "I know who you are, Monsieur le Comte. Though, I can see plainly that you're completely at a loss regarding just who it is that I am. You see, I invited myself when I heard about your party. You needn't be so polite, it's terribly tedious. You have every right to be indignant and throw me out. This crush could use some stimulation."

"Age never changes you, Harry," the Marquis grumbled before turning his attention to the bewildered young Comte. "Lord Henry is just trying to provoke you, pay no attention… He was an old friend of your brother, Philippe."

"I call it 'lasting' friend of Philippe. Any relationship title is only made offensive when referred to as an aging object. Makes one feel twice as old as they are, or ought to be. There are too few things that are constant or improving with age…" his snarky smirk then faded some as he at last focused on Raoul. "I was a friend of you brothers. And I wish to offer my honest condolences."

"Thank you, monsieur," Raoul said quietly. "You're the first to offer any."

Lord Henry scoffed lightly. "That is not surprising at all. Philippe was far too interesting when he was alive to be dwelled on when he's dead. So much time gets wasted on grieving and apologizing over something that one had no control over in the first place. I myself never made a habit of giving condolences to anyone."

"Then why give them now?" Christine finally spoke with curiosity.

"Because I truly am sorry." His voice was sharp with clarity with every word spoken, almost like a professional orator. There was no doubt that this man always had something to say, and it was proven when he glanced to Raoul, then back to her. "I feel compelled to congratulate you, though, Comte. I had heard that you eloped with a beautiful soprano after some considerable scandal. I've all the more admiration for you because of it!"

"Such is hardly anything to be proud of, Lord Henry," the Marquis grumbled quietly. "I do not think this is the place to deliberate it."

"One should always be proud of the things that no one else can boast of," Lord Henry smiled. "I am pleased to see that your bride is indeed as lovely as was rumored, but one day I would be delighted to hear what else is true."

"I cannot deny or confirm any rumors that I myself have never heard, monsieur," Raoul replied. "What have you been told?"

"Many things. Too many to be discussed this moment, I'm afraid. I was on my way back to my hotel when I stopped by to see the younger brother of the great Philippe de Chagny. Of the rumors, however, I can say that the least interesting thing about it was that you're happily married…"

This made Raoul and Christine laugh together. It was probably one of the only true rumors, she knew, and Raoul must have been thinking the same thing.

"You've provoked my curiosity, Lord Henry," Raoul still chuckled. "If you have no other engagements, perhaps you would like to join us for dinner tomorrow night and tell us everything. Possibly even some stories about my brother that no one else dares mention."

Lord Henry's face lit up at the invitation and he offered his hand once more. "I would be absolutely enchanted, Comte. I dine so little with beautiful women these days." A clever glance was given to Christine. "I shall call tomorrow evening, then, armed with tales to make even the shrewdest characters cringe."

"I can think of a few in your acquaintance who would not even bat an eyelash to sordid tales," the Marquis added.

"That's because I only associate with the ones who create said sordid tales," said Lord Henry without a beat.

"I've no doubt of it. I remember all too well how infested Paris was all those years ago with tales of your friend M. Gray."

Lord Henry's face darkened at the mention of that name. There was pause, and then he nodded subtly. "Paris was in need of a jolt that year, if I recall. Now, if you'll excuse me, Comte. I must be on my way." A bow from the waist was given to Christine. "Comtesse."

"Goodnight, monsieur," Raoul too gave a slight bow, and they watched the Englishman stroll leisurely from the room. "What an unusual man."

"Unusual is not the word, Comte," the Marquis chortled. "The man spews words of corruption every time he opens his mouth."

"I find him fascinating," Christine could not help smiling. "He doesn't strike me as being as immoral as he puts on."

"Perhaps not…" the Marquis had to agree.

"But you mentioned a M. Gray," said Raoul. "Is he as terrible as you so implied?"

"He is the worst of them all! But it could never be proven. I myself have never met him, but I have heard that he is a good looking boy who commits the most atrocious acts in the dark. One story I had heard had the most disgusting details involving flaming absinthe and three courtesans-" He abruptly stopped himself when he suddenly remembered where he was, his eyes flashing to Christine with shame. "This is not a fit discussion for your party, Comte… I should like to continue in my argument regarding art and politics."

"Please, Marquis…" Raoul said with some reluctance. "Continue…"

Christine could already sense a headache coming on as the Marquis began to speak again about the Moderate Party and why art should be stamped out. She softly excused herself from Raoul and slipped away. She mingled through the small crowd, stopping occasionally to greet their guests more personally.

While many of these people were pleasant and enjoyable to talk with, she did not feel she belonged with them. This entire situation felt like a scene from one of the operas where everyone was in some character or another. Only this lacked the emotion that an opera was so fraught with, and that was something she suddenly felt herself longing for…

Just then, a pleasantly familiar face appeared around the corner. It was Fleur! A broad smile burst on Christine's face and she quickly wove across the room to greet her sister-in-law.

"Hello, Fleur!" she said with some painfully contained joy.

"Christine!" Fleur smiled in return and snatched up her hands within her own. "How beautiful you look! I'm so sorry we're late… You see, Gerard was suddenly feeling too ill to attend."

"Is it serious?" Christine's smile immediately vanished.

But Fleur laughed lightly. "Hardly! He ate one too many bonbons at the theatre last night and now he has an aching belly to account for it."

Christine chuckled with her, still clutching her sister-in-law by the hands. "I'm sorry he couldn't come… I missed you both terribly."

"Oh, you are simply the sweetest! I will tell him you said so. Not many people say such things about him," she laughed. "I hope you and Raoul won't mind, but I have brought a guest in my husband's place."

"Of course we don't mind. Who is your guest?"

"He is simply charming, I tell you!" Fleur smiled, and for a moment, Christine was sure she saw the other woman blush. But Fleur turned her head too quickly to look over her shoulder and around the room. "Where has he gone to?"

Releasing Christine's hands at last, she took her dress in one hand and walked away in search of her escort. She didn't search very long before she disappeared into the foyer. When she returned, she had the arm of a young man. But his face was concealed behind a couple of guests who strolled slowly by. When Fleur and her escort reemerged, however, a gasp sounded from Christine. It was Gabriel de Tophet.

"M. de Tophet," she breathed his name.

His eyes had fastened on her. In the three months after he had disappeared from their home, she had forgotten how striking his eyes were as well as how they penetrated into her as if he knew every fiber of her being.

Just then, the bell rang for dinner to be served. Like a flock of flamingos, everyone drifted into the dining room to take their assigned seats along the elaborate oak table. Raoul was seated at one end, the Marquise de St. Pelay on his right, and on the opposing end of the table was Christine with the Marquis de St. Pelay at her right.

The process of placing all of their guests in appropriate order for the night was a task that took her five days in planning. Dinner was uninteresting as the men presided over the conversation, led primarily by the Marquis in his obsessive rant about art and politics.

"These painters, who cluster together like driftwood, are so engrossed in their world of _imitating_ life that they forget about the truly important things! The need for an efficient government, for instance."

"I always viewed art as a window to the aspects of life, not a mere imitation," Raoul politely argued.

"They skew the truth, I say," the Marquis said stubbornly. "Paintings are a misrepresentation of life and music is a distraction from it!"

Gabriel, who had been silent during the entirety of the meal, finally spoke, his voice carrying strangely across the table. "Might I put forth, Marquis, that music evokes all of the necessary emotions and inspirations needed for your political acts? Did we not have _La Marseilles_ to fuel our revolution? Have you never heard a melody that made your heart want to burst with love for an unknown muse or stir you so profoundly that you feel you might have gazed upon your very own soul?"

The Marquis stared at him almost as though he was speaking another language, but Christine felt a flutter within her chest. It may have been a foreign language to St. Pelay, but it was _her_ language.

"I can honestly say, monsieur, that I have not," replied the Marquis.

"Then you have never heard _true_ music," retorted Gabriel, and for the briefest of flickers, his eyes went to Christine.

"No music can sway me from my views, M. de Tophet," the Marquis said with certainty.

There was a tension beginning to build as the argument continued, and it was enough to spur Raoul into acting as the mediator and host. With a clearing of his throat, he carefully set his napkin atop the table.

"Shall we retreat for some smoke and cognac, gentlemen?" he said amiably.

There was a murmur of agreement before the men politely excused themselves from the ladies and filed from the room. Raoul was at the head of the group, but Gabriel dawdled a few steps behind. His eyes never settling on anything or anyone and continuously wavering towards her direction. Or was she being egocentric to think so?

The women returned to the music room where the Marquise seated herself once more on the piano bench. She began to play the same Liszt tune that she had been playing all night, all the while her finger-work never improving. Fleur herded Christine to a settee where they sat down.

"I do love the sheer irony of it all!" Fleur whispered with a grin.

"Of what?" Christine chuckled at her excitement.

"The Marquis and his wife! He complains about music, yet there she is playing it! You are quite fortunate that Raoul is as in love with you as he is your voice. He spoke of nothing else when he rediscovered you at the _Opéra Populaire_."

"It seems so long ago…" Christine said somewhat dreamily as her mind drifted back to those days of music and darkness. They were fearful days, but also filled with sheer delight at the mere sound of music and singing with all of her being.

Her memories were faded, but she could still hear the sound of the opera's orchestra filling the theatre, and that haunting organ as its breaths bellowed through the damp cellars, playing tunes that she had never heard and would never hear again. Melodies that spoke to her more eloquently than any poem or any human being ever could…

But, she _could_ hear those melodies. In her remembering, she did not realize that the twittering at the piano had paused for a moment before striking up again with a different tune, and by different hands. These hands were not clumsy like the poor Marquise's; they were masterful and expertly timed with each chord. And the music that emanated from it brought a gradual silence from all of the ladies in the room as their attention was stolen.

The Marquise was now standing beside the large instrument watching the new player with captivation. Sitting on the bench was Gabriel, the only man in the room and seeming without a care about it as he played.

"Well!" breathed Fleur with a small smile. "He had mentioned that he was fond of music, but never that he was skilled at it!" The woman rose from the settee and approached the piano, leaving Christine alone to stare with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"Gabriel," Fleur said quietly. "What is that tune you are playing and why have you left the men? Surely you feel ridiculous spending your time with women!"

The ladies giggled, but fell quickly silent again to better hear the music.

A striking smirk appeared on his equally striking face as he looked askance to the woman, his fingers continuing without falter across the ivory keys. "I wanted to prove a point to the Marquis about music and there is no piano in the drawing room…"

The questions were only half answered and his eyes lowered once more to the instrument with an air of nonchalance.

"But my husband is not present to hear it," the Marquise commented on the obvious fact.

"He refused to come," Gabriel said simply. "But I know how to draw him. I know how to draw them all." His eyes then found Christine from afar, looking steadily at her. "Perhaps a heavenly voice will be too much for them to refuse?"

All eyes turned to her and she could feel her heart leaping into her throat. He was asking her to sing. She had not used her voice in any musical form since the night that Erik had stolen her from Faust. Feeling the attention upon her, she had to force a lovely smile along with the hesitant shake of her head.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur… I- I can't."

"Oh, but Christine!" Fleur hurried as gracefully as she could to her sister-in-law. "I have never heard you sing before! And what a perfect opportunity to perform the voice we had only read about in the paper!"

"One song," Gabriel's voice seemed to flow with the music that he played.

The haunting melody that he played then transformed into another, one that she easily recognized as the work of Verdi's opera, La Traviata. It was Violetta's aria, _Ah! fors'e lui_. As the piano played on, the women began to prod her on, their excitement growing as they were faced with the opportunity to see an operatic performance. All the while, Gabriel staring at her. He seemed to know that he didn't need to speak to encourage her. He needed only to play the music.

The notes that flitted through the air acted like an invisible lasso, coiling around her throat and pulling her to her feet and towards the piano. And as that musical cord tightened, it forced from her the first syllables of that aria.

"_E' strano! E' strano!_"

How strange, indeed, as the lyrics expressed all that she felt inside. The aria began timidly, but gradually she could feel the emotion of it consume her. Violetta's confusion in love was almost her own and her voice soon filled the music room. As she sang, she felt something that she did not realize had been dormant in these past months. It was freedom and exaltation. Now that she was singing, she felt at last that she was Christine Daaé, not the Comtesse de Chagny.

When at last the aria came to the climax she had found her gaze locked upon Gabriel's mesmerizing eyes. There was a glimmer in his eyes and his chest fell and rose rapidly. Her rapture in the music was his own and she was momentarily deafened by the beating of her own heart in her ears. But she could hear him clearly as he whispered only one word.

"_Bravo_."

"Christine!"

Raoul's voice brought a harsh recoil back into reality and it made her jolt as her soul seemed to snap back into her body. She turned in time for her husband to steal to her side, and at the entrance to the music room, she could see the other gentlemen in their black and white suits, leaning comfortably on the door and wall.

Raoul was smiling, though she could sense his inevitable questions. "Christine, you didn't tell me you intended to sing tonight..."

"It was spontaneous, Raoul!" Fleur spoke up. "And it was magnificent! What a voice! And you left the opera to marry him!" She laughed at her own jest.

"It is a tragic loss for the world," Gabriel added, reclining somewhat away from the piano's keys. His eyes at last left her to favor Raoul. But his gaze was far from friendly.

"Well, M. de Tophet, was your point made to my husband?"

Gabriel's response to the Marquise was delayed as he looked questionably to her. "Pardon?"

"You said you were making a point about music," she reminded lightly.

To this, he smiled and rose to his feet. "Perhaps you should ask the Marquis if any point was made. I merely wanted to hear the voice of the former Christine Daaé once more."

"She has no equal," Raoul agreed at a whisper, and taking her hand, placed a kiss on it. "And I am the luckiest man France to have her as my wife."

"Tis a pity luck is so short lived," Gabriel said crisply. When his comment received curious stares, an obviously forced smile appeared. "So I have been told."

"More music!" Fleur said flippantly, unaware of any tension. "Do you know any waltzes, M. de Tophet?"

"I know waltzes, fox trots, arias, adagios, and dirges, Madame!" Here, he happily seated himself once more at the piano with a toss of his coattails. "And there _will_ be music until we are all corrupted by its spell! Even the Marquis!" Splaying his fingers, he hit the keys and began to play Brahms's Opus 39, Number 1.

As the music went on, Raoul gently took Christine by the hand and led her away towards the settee, seating her before he seated himself at her side.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he whispered. "You were magnificent, but you're looking pale…"

"I'm fine, Raoul…" she whispered, fighting every attempt to allow her eyes to drift towards the pianist. She could feel him watching her but didn't dare meet his gaze again.


	10. 10 His True Face

10. HIS TRUE FACE

Spending nights in the slums was always easier in the past when he knew he had a villa or a grand house to return to after he had his fill of filthy adventure. But to know he was doomed to live among rats and grime was hard for Dorian to accept. Had he still been attractive to the eye, he would declare that it was unjust for him to be forced to live such a lifestyle. But, with the face he now had, he was only fit for the macabre catacombs that twisted beneath the streets of the city; which is precisely where he settled himself.

In his first night in France, he lost all of his money. Penniless and homeless, he tracked down Lord Henry with nothing but his portrait in his possession. Harry was right where Dorian expected, at the Paris le Grand Hotel on Rue Scribe. It was Harry's favorite for many reasons. It was the resting place of many infamous and famous artists and politicians, it was aesthetically pleasing, and most of all it was conveniently close to the _Opéra Populaire_.

He did not dare to approach his old friend, though. When he caught a glimpse of old Harry coming out of the hotel one evening, he knew to show his ghastly face to the man again would have been too cruel. That is, too cruel to himself. He did not want to see his old friend shrinking away in horror again. Not after he had lived a life of being stared at for his attractiveness. No, instead he endeavored to have the portrait delivered to Harry by one of the valets, all the while the object being guarded from afar by Dorian's new black eyes.

It was well past midnight when Lord Henry returned and was given the rolled up canvas in the lobby. Harry didn't regard the unusual delivery as anything worthwhile as he carelessly carried it to the lift. That was the last time that Dorian saw his friend and his treasured painting, so he could not know what Harry's reaction was to it, or if he even bothered to keep it. But, if he knew Harry as well as he fancied himself too, the man was not too cynical to be rid of such a priceless piece of art. It had been painted by and of his two dearest friends, both of whom were assumed to be dead and gone. One of them was surely dead, but Dorian was the only soul left alive to know that certainty.

After he bid a quiet farewell to his friend and portrait, he slinked into the darkness without knowing where to go or why. He slept in various awful places over the weeks. Sometimes in alleys with one eye open lest he get garroted or knifed, sometimes in a missionary where the good "servants of the Lord" would offer him a bed until his face caused them to drive him out as they crossed themselves. This lifestyle was not befitting of Mr. Gray at all. Nearly every night he cried himself to sleep until his head throbbed and his eyes ached. And all the while, he knew the Devil had to be laughing at his misery.

He developed the habit of travelling at night when he could better hide in the shadows. And it was during one of these wanderings that he found himself near the Barrière d'Enfer. He knew there was an entrance here to the notorious empire of the dead, the Catacombs. He had been there once on a drunken whim to laugh at the decayed faces, reveling in the fact that he would never rot away or age. He was one of them now, and so he descended the spiral staircase into the tunnels for a much different reason. He resigned to join them, and in the process could not help feeling a twinge of humility and shame as their eyeless sockets stared with judgment at him.

The place had many visitors, tourists who all shared a common morbid fascination in the walls that were built entirely of bones. And though guests frequented these haunted tunnels, Dorian knew there were many places that were blocked off or hidden from the guests. Places where he could hide in his shameful ugliness to wallow in his despair. Though it was perhaps the most depressing place on earth, outside of his own mind, it was the most peace he had found since he awoke in that silk-line coffin. He slept there all through the day, leaving only when the sun was set to find perhaps a scrap of food for his skeletal body to thrive on.

It was on one of these nights, as he scurried out of an alley, that a stopped cab forced him to hide in the dark again. A man emerged, dressed in a fine evening suit. Even in his misery, Dorian's mind improved the attire with added flowers or colored ascots.

"Perhaps another time, Madam," the man spoke into the cab hurriedly.

"_Then come for tea tomorrow_," a woman's voice said sweetly from within.

The man hesitated, then shook his head. "I am afraid not. I have an unexpected engagement tomorrow. Good night, Fleur."

He spoke with little interest and an obvious need to make his leave. Dorian thought he heard the woman begin to speak, but the man had already closed the cab door and motioned the driver on. As the cab clattered away, the man took long strides along the street, his head down with what seemed distracted concentration.

The man's solitary position struck Dorian with a welcoming, if somewhat alarming thought. Evening dress often meant there was money to be found, and the pain in his belly made thieving sound better than starving. And this man was not terribly large. In fact, he was somewhat lean with what Dorian thought an attractive and youthful physique.

He shadowed the man down the boulevard, keeping his steps light and as soundless as he knew how. When he was sure they had reached the vicinity of the man's home, near the high class apartments of Parisian society, he kept walking. In fact, they walked for nearly two hours, the man at a brisk pace with a horrid creature trailing him. Then, they came to the slums.

Perhaps this young man was much like Dorian had once been. He clearly came from a formal party of some sort, and maybe now he sought a little deprivation in a gin house. But he didn't enter the smoke filled doors that they approached. Instead he went for the tiny chapel that was wedged between tenement house and a pawn shop. Well, if anything, a God fearing man would be glad to give his money to something that looked crafted by Satan himself. The idea of merely asking for the fellow's valuables and showing his face to get them sparked a little bitter amusement within Dorian. Human's tended to be predictable like that.

He held back in the shadows when the young man stepped into the chapel and spied on him through the grimy windows. Though the windows were filthy, there were spots of clear glass in which he could occasionally catch a glimpse of the man, as well as the priest who greeted him with piety. Only half of a greeting was returned from the well-dressed boy before he motioned to a nearby organ that sat on the far end of the chapel. The priest nodded and the man seated himself behind it.

The organ was nothing impressive. In fact, Dorian could not even see the pipes from his stand point. Then the man began to play it. There was no definite tune from what Dorian could hear, but the man went on pressing the keys nonetheless. By the movement of his hands, this organ was an old friend, and as they moved dexterously, a melody developed. It was a somber one, and with the bellowing of the hidden pipes, it was somewhat eerie. The more that Dorian stood at that window, the more he found himself becoming enthralled by the music. He'd never heard anything like it before and there was not a hitch of mistake in its playing.

A knot in his stomach pulled him from his listening to remind him of his purpose for the night. Food. He needed money to eat. Tugging his hat lower on his forehead, and making certain that his dirty scarf was securely over his face, he pushed his way quietly into the chapel where the music echoed through the tiny pews. He went directly to the organ, the man all the while none the wiser to his presence.

There was no plan, really, to how he was going to take the money. But his first inclination was to reach into the gaping pocket of that black evening suit and take whatever his boney fingers would touch. Carefully, and with a glance to make certain that the priest was not around, he inched his hand towards the unguarded pocket. No sooner had his fingertips touched the fabric, however, did a pale hand seize him harshly by the wrist and twist it, the music dying immediately.

"You should have stayed at the window." The man spoke crisply before turning around with a hard glare.

Dorian was surprised enough by his presence being known, but when the stranger turned, horror froze him. He was looking at himself. Not as he was now, but as he had once been! It was the face of his portrait, the one he thought was lost forever. Immediately he thought himself driven mad by the Devil's mischief and when he wanted to scream, he instead gasped and choked on his own air. Wrenching himself free, he turned to run from the chapel. He fell once or twice in his frantic escape, but he was soon out in the streets and running back to his catacombs.


	11. 11 Hades & Persephone

11. HADES & PERSEPHONE

It was the morning after their successful, if somewhat unorthodox, dinner party. Everyone had bid their host and hostess goodnight before they left. All except for Gabriel. Though he was standing beside Fleur as she bid them farewell, not a sound came out of him.

The handsome young man left Christine more than bewildered. By coaxing her to sing, he pulled loose some threads within her and she feared at any moment she would fall apart. It was as though she needed to sing again to be woven together again, this time in the correct pattern. Her content life with Raoul was now disturbed by thoughts that she could not identify.

Raoul had left that morning to attend to legal matters regarding the estates he had inherited from Philippe. It was nearly four months after the funeral and they were still far from settled. To say nothing of the fact that Philippe left a gargantuan debt as his legacy. These problems left Christine alone at home. She was not melancholic about it, however. The chance to sit undisturbed at her writing desk, the windows open to let in the sounds of the birds in the garden, was a welcome opportunity for solace. If only her rampaging and nonsensical thoughts would let her.

She had been meaning to write to the only woman she could call a mother: Mamma Valérius. Professor Valérius and his wife had supported Christine and her father in their musical pursuits, and from the moment that Mamma Valérius met the little girl, she was captivated. It had been nearly a month since Christine last received a letter from her, and it had taken her just as long to write a reply missive. But now, as she sat with the quill in her hand, no words came. There was only the echo of the previous night's music making her mind gyrate, float, then sink again.

When she at last drifted back into being coherent, she sighed and set the quill aside. The letter would have to wait. There were dinner invitations that she needed to sort through, and she hoped that they would provide a better distraction. No sooner had she risen to her feet did the butler, Johannes, appear.

"Your Ladyship, you have a caller."

Her mind drew a blank. "A caller? Who?"

"A certain M. de Tophet."

There it was again, that fluttering feeling in her chest. "I'll be out directly." Her voice quivered slightly, and when Johannes left, she pressed a hand to her cheek. Why did the idea of his visit terrify her, yet excite her all the same? With a few deep breaths, she calmed her nerves as much as she was able and walked leisurely into the parlor where Johannes had left him.

"M. de Tophet," she smiled politely. "Good morning."

He was standing in front of the hearth, a folded book clutched under his arm, and at the sound of her voice he turned quickly around. There was no returned greeting as he stared at her, lips parted as though ready to speak, but nothing coming out.

Using her best judgment, she stopped at least ten feet from him, not daring to get any closer. Even though something (she did not know what) pulled her towards him relentlessly.

"To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" she struggled to keep the tone of a comtesse.

"Only you…"

The reply almost made her leap backward, to run away from such an inappropriate remark, but her feet were cemented to the rug beneath her. "Excuse me?"

"You and your voice, Christine- _Comtesse_." He quickly corrected himself with a wince. "Your song has been haunting me since last night and I must hear you sing again. You see, I… I am a musician of sorts. One might say it is my passion. At least, it is one of them."

"I am no longer an opera singer, monsieur," she said quietly.

"That is a lie," he said sharply. "You could no less be an opera singer than you could be a woman. I could hear it in your voice, Comtesse, that music flows through your veins. I was awake all through the night writing music that I thought was long dead. Nothing can resurrect it but your voice. I've come to beg that you lend me the voice that makes angels weep."

"Please, monsieur…" she quietly pleaded.

"_Sing for me_…" he whispered emphatically as he inched towards her.

Those words sent a shiver down her spine. She felt that twinge of fear again, and as before, she found herself somehow obeying.

"Perhaps one song," she agreed before she realized it.

Without another word, she led him to the music room. The night before it was crowded with guests and lit by the golden glow of candlelight. Now, it was dimly lit by the sunlight that forced its way through the curtains, the soft luminescence making the room appear twice as large and twice as empty.

She paused some small distance from the piano and turned to look to her guest. But he was closer than she anticipated- a mere breath away. It startled her, but before she had a moment to react, he was moving around her to seat himself on the piano's bench. The book that he had been carrying beneath his arm was opened and set atop the piano. One sheet was taken and held out to her, the marks of music scrawled across its face.

"The work is incomplete," he confessed quietly. "But I cannot finish it alone. And you will be the only one to hear it before it is done."

After a pause, she took the sheet from him and looked closely at the title before reading it aloud. "Persephone's Ode to Spring," she murmured.

He nodded once and lifted the cover from the piano's keys. "A goddess of Spring. Hades fell in love with her and made her his queen in the Underworld."

Christine had heard the myth before, and her eyes trailed over the notes and the lyrics. "She was abducted against her will…"

Softly, he began to play a light sonata on the piano to make certain it was in tune. "But Hades set her free…" he quietly argued.

"Not before tricking her into eating the fruit that would force her to return."

"Love was the cause for all his crimes and gifts. It was love that made him abduct her then free her. Just as it was love that necessitated her return to him…"

Her eyes were fixed on the sheet of music, but she could feel him watching her. "I may not be able to sing, after all… I'm afraid I haven't the voice today…"

She lowered the paper to set it atop the piano, but before she could release it, his hand seized her own and held her grip upon it. His hand was firm, but gentle.

"It's your will that you've been robbed of, Christine… Singing is next to breathing for you. Only when I hear you sing do I feel the need to live. _Sing_."

Had she been accustomed to her title, she would have insisted that he refer to her by it. But to hear him utter her name, as much of a stranger as he was, brought a comforting familiarity. And the mention of his will to live reminded her of his dire state in which they found him, and the belief that he had attempted suicide. Whatever his reasons for wanting to be dead, she now felt the pang of obligation to encourage him to live. And if it was through music that she could do it, she would.

With a subtle nod, she had to pull her hand from his intent grip. He seemed to her reluctant to let go, but as she held onto the music, he released her and returned his own hands to the keys.

"Now… Let us warm up."

Christine was rather caught off guard by his demeanor. By all appearances, he was scarcely older than she was. But he had the air of an experienced maestro as he began to play the notes in which she was to follow in the warm up exercise. The warm up lasted over half an hour, and she was convinced that she was more than ready to sing his aria. But he insisted that her voice was not as ready as she was. That she was constraining her vocal chords too much. She did not think she could relax her voice any more than she already had when he at last agreed to let her sing from the sheet.

It was a cheerful song, one that provoked the images and feelings associated with the warmth of spring. Most songs of that sort were mindless in their flippant mood, but this one managed to encompass in all of its notes and melodies the hopes and liveliness that springtime brings. The forgetfulness of the past harsh winter. It was a beautiful song that made her feel the joy of its lyrics and music as she let her voice echo through the music room. He began to smile as he played and she could not help smiling in return. When the song was finished, she smiled still.

"It's wonderful!" she said. "How can this be incomplete?"

"It was," he smiled to her. "Until you sang it."

All of the timidity and apprehension that she suffered around him was suddenly forgotten as she now moved nearer to rest a hand atop the piano.

"Last night, you said that you wanted to hear Christine Daaé sing again… Have you heard me sing before?"

His eyes averted back to the piano's keys, though he did not play them. "I was… an admirer. During your days at the Opera. One of many, I know…I was promised one song, but would it be too audacious of me to request another?"

"One of your own?" her voice betrayed her by sounding too hopeful.

He smirked and shook a singular finger at her. "Not this time. Next I suggest an old favorite. Marguerite's Aria, from Faust."

"The Jewel Song?" she asked.

He nodded and lowered himself to the keys once more. Again he played the tune and she sang the part of the Marguerite. But as she sang of jewels, the lyrics holding a tone of vanity and materialism, she could not help the distinct feeling that his choice of song was a mockery of her status gained by marriage. As this thought dawned on her, her voice became strained and impassionate.

"More frivolity!" he commanded as he played on.

She did as he said and forced a smile, as well as a giddy tone. She had sung this role before and knew well how it was to be played. The song ended and she stared at him, hating him for his choice of song, but somehow eager for his approval.

"You do not like to sing Faust," he said observantly as he leaned away from the keyboard.

"Surely you, an admirer, can guess why."

"Guessing is all I can do," he replied. "The papers were aflame with the story of you vanished from the stage in the middle of your performance. Many reported a scandal between you and your husband's brother, the former Comte de Chagny."

She opened her mouth to deny it all, but he spoke over her.

"I don't believe the scandal, you needn't fret… You think me cruel to have you sing Marguerite, don't you? It isn't cruelty. Your voice needs to be set free again. Your wings were clipped when you made your vows to de Chagny, but enough time has elapsed that your feathers have sprouted anew. But you are unpracticed and afraid to stretch your wings. I want you to overcome your fear of music, Christine. Will you let me help you take flight?"

"To what end?" she asked. "I won't be returning to the opera."

"Perhaps not… But you have given your soul to music and only through music can you truly live."

She did long for music. To be a part of it and to hear it. She could no longer deny it. "Then perhaps you can call again tomorrow at the same time, M. de Tophet. I will sing whatever you write. But, for now I must prepare for another caller."

He nodded submissively, and collecting his music, stood from the piano. Putting it under his arm, he circled around her. "I will return tomorrow then…" he murmured. There was an odd strain to his voice, almost as though he was on the brink of tears, but she saw none.

"Good day, monsieur," she had to hide her bewilderment.

He gave only a bow from the waist before walking briskly from the music room, and soon out of the house completely, and all the while she found herself staring after him.

No sooner had he left the presence of Christine did he fall into a heavy recline upon the lamp post that stood in front of the Chagny chateau. His heart was aching it was so elated with love. Christine sang for him, she spoke to him, and even smiled at him! There was never fear in her eyes and she offered to sing for him _again_! Was it all a dream? Was he really living the life of a normal human being? He had worn this beautiful face for months now, but it was not until he could see it reflected in Christine's eyes that he would know just what a blessing it truly was. She _wanted_ him to come to her again!

As he tried to catch his breath from the onslaught of rapture, his music clutched tightly to his breast by one hand as the other held his hat at his side, the clattering sound of an approaching carriage stirred him back to consciousness. Instinctively, he drew into the hedges and out of sight, the brougham just barely visible through the leaves. Descending from it was the Comte, the fair boy Raoul.

The euphoria that filled Erik's heart was quickly replaced with a searing jealousy as he watched the young Comte cheerfully approach his lovely home to see his even lovelier wife. Such a fool did not deserve to be married to a goddess. He was stifling her, even if she did not know it. In his misery, Erik had let him have her. But now that same misery was a thing of the past.

Now, Erik knew without a doubt that he was the better match of Christine. Not only could he love her with his entire being, as he always had, but he could give her music and draw out her highest potential. Such were things that Raoul was incapable of. All that the Comte could give her was wealth and frothy affection. The things of childhood sweethearts. Erik intended to save Christine from this slow death. He intended to have her as his own once and for all, and there was nothing to bar his way.


	12. 12 Confrontation

12. CONFRONTATION

Seeing the handsome face that he had been born with on another man had to be regarded as a tormenting hallucination. It was Lucifer bidding for a laugh at Dorian's expense, and by his horrified reaction, the Devil had easily gotten it. But Dorian, in spite of the continued palpitations of his heart from the shock, found himself retracing his steps to that tiny chapel later that night.

It was only a couple of hours before the sun would begin to rise and there were still the haunting notes being played from the organ within. He spent all night watching the imposter play that instrument. He only seemed to pause to scribble onto wrinkled paper. The man was a composer; that much was certain. But there was more than music, Dorian came to realize, when the imposter would occasionally talk to himself, or perhaps the walls. From Dorian's place at the grimy window, he could not hear what was being muttered. Though, he did distinctly make out a few references to a "her" and "she."

He wanted to know who this thief was- this man who stole his façade. When the morning came, the stranger at last left his organ to disappear through a door. He was gone for nearly an hour, and Dorian assumed he had gone to bed at last. Just as he resolved to return to his own sanctuary of the dead, the imposter reemerged. He had changed out of his evening dress at last and into an ordinary suit of a deep chocolate brown. It was not terribly impressive, especially to Dorian who knew that his beautiful physique deserved to be clad in nothing less than splendor.

The imposter collected his newly written music and rushed so quickly from the chapel that he practically flew. Dorian, all the while, was gone unnoticed as the man went on foot to an unknown location. Just as he did the night before, Dorian shadowed him closely, keeping his face concealed beneath hat and scarf. Fortunately, the lovely imposter was far too distracted to look over his shoulder this time.

They walked all morning through the streets of Paris until they came at last to a large and striking chateau. On the gate was a coat of arms bearing the name Comte de Chagny. Dorian new that name! Comte Philippe de Chagny was an old friend, someone who had spent many a wild night with Dorian in the highest- and lowest- places of Paris. When this stranger entered into the large household, Dorian was left all the more bewildered. Did Philippe believe this person to be Dorian Gray? It couldn't be!

With his hideous face, however, he did not dare to make himself known follow into the house. Instead, he lurked on the outside; spying through whatever windows he could to catch a glimpse of something, _anything_, all the while evading the servants who busied themselves around the house with their duties. Then, something flitted to his ugly ears. It was a voice singing from inside, the notes familiar as the ones he had heard composed the very night before.

As the organ played the tune, it was haunting and somewhat disturbing. But now, as a mysterious and heavenly voice sang them, it sank deep into Dorian's core. Had he a soul of his own, he would have sworn it was stricken by such sounds. For three hours he listened to this angelic singing, forgetting for a moment that he was a living corpse crouching on the threshold of an aristocrat's home. The music stopped, and sometime later, the imposter came wandering out the front door.

He was carrying his music again, but now he looked in a daze. In fact, he looked downright confused. He barely reached the street before he leaned heavily on the lamp post. He appeared as Dorian felt after listening to such music. Suddenly, the sound of an approaching brougham alerted the man, and he slipped into a hiding place in the shadows. This move brought him unbearably close to Dorian, nearly within arm's reach. How easy it would have been to grab him and demand that he return his face to him!

The passenger of the brougham, however, caught both of their attentions. A young man climbed out and went directly to the house where he entered as though he were the lord and master. That surely wasn't Philippe, though this man did bear some resemblance… Perhaps the younger brother that Philippe had mentioned on more than one occasion? What was his name… As the imposter watched the young man enter the chateau, Dorian could see his hand curling into a white-knuckled fist. There was a clear rage… But why?

Before he knew it, he was once again trailing the ghost of his former self through the streets of Paris. He did not know his reasons for following so closely. He only knew that it was joyous and unbearably painful to see his own handsome face once again.

For a mere instant Dorian glanced away as a noise in the thoroughfare stole his attention, and when he looked back, the imposter was gone. In a sudden panic, Dorian rushed forward, desperate to find him and trail him again. As he passed a shadowed doorway, he heard a sharp whisper of air and something cut into his throat. His entire body was jerked backward against another, and in a gasping fight, he tried to pull at a cord that coiled around his neck. It was so tight, even around his scarf, that he could not get a finger beneath it.

"Come to scavenge my pockets again?" a voice laughed in his ear.

Dorian could only gag a reply.

"You should choose your prey more wisely, monsieur," said the man, "and not be fooled by appearances!"

Suddenly, Dorian was released. He fell to the ground immediately, a long and painful breath being taken in.

"Who are you..?" he managed to ask in a hoarse breath.

A brief laugh escaped the imposter but was silenced abruptly by curiosity and perhaps confusion. "Isn't that what I should be asking _you_?"

"I am Dorian Gray!" He declared his identity as he at last lifted his dark eyes to the man who wore his face, the scarf over his own mouth confining his air as he at last breathed easy again.

But the imposter only looked at him nonchalantly. "I thank you for providing me with the name that I should submit to the_ Époque _obituary, in that case that you follow me again."

Before the man could walk away, however, Dorian's boney fingers curled around his ankle and held him in place. "_Who are you?_" He insisted desperately.

"You ask my identity and hide your own face?" spat the man. "You've no doubt an ordinary face beneath and therefore have no right to ask me!"

Then, ready to prove a point, the imposter knelt down beside Dorian's felled form and threw off the hat simultaneously as he tore the scarf from his face. As Dorian anticipated, a look of horror came across the handsome young face and the imposter fell backwards, his sparkling eyes wide as they stared with terror. He was frozen.

"You call this atrocity an ordinary face?" Dorian cried and began to pull the scarf over his mouth to conceal it again.

"No!" The stranger screamed a protest and reached forward, pulling the scarf down once more as he stared. The initial terror was becoming awe. "How can it be…?" he whispered. "You… you are a mirror of my true face…"

This made Dorian's heart stop. "And you mine." He replied with wonder. At last, the other man allowed him to cover his shameful face once more, and for a moment he thought he saw pity in the imposter's eyes.

"I think, monsieur," the man said after a long silence, "that we have much to discuss. But not here. I should like some answers." He glanced about the street where few people paid any attention to the confrontation.

"I should like some answers as well," Dorian said rather bitterly. "I can take you to a remote place where we can talk freely… If you're not too afraid."

"Afraid?" scoffed the other. "A life in shadows makes one immune to the dark. The only thing that frightens me about your face is that it is no longer mine."

That sold him. Dorian was convinced that whatever game the Devil, or perhaps God, was playing on him involved this stranger in one way or another and he intended to find out how.


	13. 13 Quid Pro Quo

13. QUID PRO QUO

For the first time, Erik experienced a role reversal. This time, he was the lovely beauty being led by a disfigured spectral figure into the bowels of the earth. Unlike his abduction of Christine, however, this was for the sake of a gentlemen's discussion. Not a delusional precursor to a marriage agreement.

The poor wretch who now wore the abhorrent face of Erik led the way discreetly into the Catacombs that stretched beneath Paris. Though the cellars of the Opera House were Erik's preference as a dwelling, the Catacombs were not completely unfamiliar. He had roamed through them on more than one occasion, since the presence of other corpses offered an unusual solace for his deathly face.

But this hideous stranger led him through bone laden corridors that he had never been to, eventually arriving at what was certainly a remote place for a secret conversation. There was nothing there to indicate that it was a home, aside from the shoddy makeshift bed of rags with a single candle beside it.

"You've found a home befitting your face," Erik had to comment at a murmur.

The stranger shrank against the wall that was made of bone and skulls, his head bowed slightly to keep his ugly face hidden.

"Is that why you chose a chapel?" he asked with resentment.

This made Erik laugh. "Father Jean-Baptiste Guillame was the only person I could find who had an instrument they were willing to share and I have music to play. I secure a bed and roof by playing for his congregation." As he gave this brief explanation, he folded his arms over his chest to look across the dimly lit room at the ashamed stranger who called himself Dorian Gray.

"Now tell me something about yourself, M. Gray. You were following me. I am rather disappointed in myself for not knowing just how long you were in my shadow, but I am willing to overlook it… You're an Englishman aren't you? Your accent betrays you."

"Yes…" Gray answered solemnly. "But I can never return to England. Not with this face…"

Sympathy sent a chill through Erik. He knew the despair of such a façade, as well as burnt bridges in one's wake because of it. There was a long pause where there could only be heard the ghostly echoes of the Catacombs before Erik at last ventured to ask.

"Tell me how you came to have that… _face_." Even when he himself wore that hideousness he had difficulty in referring to it with such a generic title.

Here, Gray wrapped his arms pitifully around himself like an infant left in the cold. "I sold my soul to the Devil. I was young, handsome, wealthy, and socially renowned. I lived on art and pleasure and never had a blemish to show for it. Until now…"

Gray's ambiguity was somewhat bothersome. But Erik endeavored to be patient. Having been the vocal coach to a young girl for years, he learned how to be tolerant. "And _when_ did you lose all of those magnificent things?"

"I went too far," the wretch voiced a vague confession. "I resolved to destroy the thing that proved my vice, my-" His hollow eyes flashed up from beneath the brim of his hat as he cut himself off. "I… I don't fully know what killed me. But I woke in a coffin, at my own funeral, with this… this face."

Erik listened carefully, his porcelain fingers tapping on his elbow as he held tightly onto that patience. "How long ago was this?"

"I am not sure… perhaps two or three months…" Self-pity was clearly beginning to overwhelm Dorian Gray as his voice tightened along with his self-embrace.

"Three months…" Erik repeated with interest. "It is about that long ago that I myself died and was resurrected. I awoke in my home- rather what was left of it- with this." Here, he pointed at his new and handsome face.

Those hollow eyes looked at him again, beguiled and disbelieving.

"Is this the face you once wore, M. Gray?" Erik asked with the utmost seriousness.

After a delay, there was a slow and subtle nod from the other. And somewhere in those hollow eyes glimmered what might have been a tear.

"And yours was once mine…" Erik remarked quietly.

What power was it that could trade the faces of two completely different men? Dorian Gray was nothing like Erik. One had been given the world on a golden platter; the other was thrust into misery from the day he was born. He did not know Dorian's story, but he suspected the only similarity they shared was that neither of them were any more saintly than a Spanish Inquisitor.

"Whatever the reason or cause of this," Erik at last broke the silence, "I think we can help each other."

"Why would you want to help me?" Dorian asked skeptically.

"Because I know what it is to be reviled for such a face. You forget that I had to live through a childhood with it. Because of that face, my mother treated me like a boil to be covered from the world. To love and be loved with that face was an impossibility."

That was half of a lie. He did learn to love, eventually.

Dorian stared at him. "I would think your understanding of what it means to be this ugly would be all the more reason for you to wash your hands of me. Ugliness doesn't belong in the world."

"There cannot be beauty without ugliness," Erik retorted. "I myself am hardly in any position to give you money or shelter, but the most I can do is acquire decent food for you from the chapel."

The mention of food brought a new light to the concealed face as the eyes sparkled with hope. But a shadow came suddenly over them.

"What am I to do in return?" asked Dorian suspiciously.

This poor man was fragile, but not stupid, and his quick wit brought a smile to Erik's face. "You've played the shadow so well at my heels, I wonder if you can do the same to someone else for me."

"Who?"

"Comte Raoul de Chagny."

"Raoul?" Dorian repeated the name. "Is he the younger to Philippe?"

The mention of Philippe had Erik rub lightly at his chin with feigned innocence. "Yes. At least, he was."

"Philippe is dead then?"

"Very much so, I'm afraid." Erik would know. He drowned the man himself in the black lake.

"What a pity…" Dorian uttered, but did not seem sincere. After a brief pondering, he peered up from beneath his hat once more. "But why would you want me to follow Raoul de Chagny?"

Erik gave a nonchalant shrug, regardless of the wheels that began to gyrate madly in his brain. "I want him afraid. And I want him away from home. Trail him, but don't be afraid to let him see you once in a while. Give him a great smile, if you can!"

To this, Erik let out a deep laugh as he imagined the expression on Raoul's fair face to see the Opera Ghost spring unexpectedly from the shadows. As he imagined this, Dorian seemed to be meanwhile turning the agreement over in his own mind. At last, Gray nodded.

"Very well. We will help each other. But I don't know your name, monsieur."

"Men once knew me as Erik," he gave his simple introduction. "But now I am Gabriel de Tophet."


	14. 14 Epigrams For Dinner

14. EPIGRAMS FOR DINNER

As planned, Lord Henry Wotton arrived at the de Chagny chateau for dinner with the Comte and Comtesse. Harry had other social engagements that day, but he gladly cancelled them. He would not miss the opportunity to dine with two of the most talked about people in Paris in recent history! And they were a lovely young couple, something that was often rumored about but never true.

The first portion of the evening, before dinner was ready, was spent in the usual fashion: Lord Henry sharing his unorthodox point of views regarding human nature and human folly(which were really one and the same), countering every argument with a shocking or unexpected reply. It was what he thrived on and this young couple was nowhere near familiar with his form of wit.

When they were at last seated at the dinner table, Harry was rather impressed with the proceedings and each of the courses. The Comte obviously had well-hired help and the Comtesse was a cleverer hostess than she put on.

"And that is why the theatre is much more truthful than any pulpit or politician," Harry went in in one of his ramblings. "The truth comes out much easier from behind a mask. Ah!" he was struck with a reminder just as he cut into his mignon. "You had invited me to hear the circulating rumors and I have not told you any of them. How rude of me."

"I hope you don't think that was the only reason you had been invited, Lord Henry," Raoul said apologetically.

This made Harry laugh. "Don't be silly. Had there been any other reason given I daresay I never would have come. I find rumors about oneself to be a comfort when they're not boring. As a former diva, you would appreciate the idea that there is no bad publicity…" He looked to the Comtesse.

But the girl blushed slightly with a dip of her chin. "That is what they say at the Opera House… But I was in front of an audience who thought little of me due to rumors and it frightened me. I think they hated me."

"That is only because they thought you were caught for doing something that they commit habitually. In that sense I would wholeheartedly agree with them. It was absolutely outrageous of you… to get caught."

He smirked over his wine glass as he could read the couple's face. They did not know whether to laugh or take offence. And Harry loved it.

"Now," he continued, "perhaps the least interesting rumor that I had come across was that the little soprano Christine Daaé wanted to marry the Vicomte for his money."

"That couldn't be farther from the truth!" Raoul breathed indignantly.

"I agree completely, Comte," Harry said before the young man could spout his defense. "Everyone knows that aristocrats are wealthy only in debt these days, and opera singers tend to be too practical to resort to wedding vows to earn a living… There was also all that talk regarding a supposed affair between Daaé and your brother. But we knew Philippe well enough that he became bored with women of the entertainment business ages ago. Last I had heard, his swore off women for the arts themselves."

"It's true," Raoul agreed. "The months before his death he was devoting himself to music and sponsoring unknown painters. He developed quite an impressive gallery that I hope to preserve."

"Yes, he became the primary sponsor for a dear friend of mine, Basil Hallward. He was to open an exhibit here in Paris some months ago, paid for by your brother."

"Hallward," the young Comte repeated the name. "Wasn't he the artist who vanished on his way to France?"

Harry nodded once. "Damn rude of him, too, for leaving us to assume the worst. The least he could have done was get himself murdered. At least then we would not be wondering about him and would have a more interesting story to tell."

"How awful!" Christine said quietly. "He was your friend, how could you wish such a thing?"

But Harry gave a light chuckle to hide that he truly did miss Basil. "He was far too placid and dull for such an interesting death, I assure you. No, all the most interesting things about him came out through his painting… Which is a rather curious subject, incidentally." He slouched back in his chair, regardless of table etiquette. "No sooner had I arrived in Paris nearly three months ago did one of Basil's paintings arrive mysteriously at my hotel. And it wasn't one of his romantic, mythological paintings of pointlessness. It was the only portrait he had ever painted in his short-lived career. The painting hadn't been seen for nearly twenty years, and suddenly it was delivered to me."

"Who was the portrait of?" asked Raoul with fascination.

"Dorian Gray," Harry said simply.

"Another friend of yours? The one that the Marquis de Pelay had mentioned?"

"The same and only," Harry smiled sadly. "Basil, Dorian and I were what you might have called inseparable at one time… In fact, I was first introduced to Dorian by Basil on one of the days that he was standing for the portrait. When it was completed, Basil gave it to Dorian as a gift, and it hadn't been seen since."

"Have you asked M. Gray about the painting? Perhaps he was the one who delivered it?" Raoul was genuinely interested.

"We certainly inquired about it more than once throughout the years, but asking him now would be somewhat difficult…" As they stared at him for an explanation, he gave the simplest one he knew. "He's dead."

"I'm sorry," Christine said quietly.

"Not nearly as sorry as he is, I'm sure," Harry murmured. "I was certain that Dorian would outlive us all. But life is relentless in its surprises…" Nostalgia for his two late friends nearly stooped Lord Henry into a depression as he sipped from his wine. But he had to remember that he was the guest and had to entertain his host and hostess!

"We've always our past reminiscences to fall back on, if anything," he smiled. "Tell me, Comtesse… Has your career as a prima donna become an antiquity in your life or will it be a guilty pleasure?"

Usually the girl turned pink when made uncomfortable by his comments. This time, he noticed easily, she turned a shade whiter

"I… I don't know what you mean, monsieur," she peeped.

"An unknown placed on the top of the bill overnight and astounding Paris with her voice could hardly make such an easy transition into married life. I myself have always preferred the sound of applause to the sound of clinking china when tea is being served. It is like thunder compared to the sound of light rain. Surely you prefer the one that quickens your heart?"

"My wife almost never sings any more, Lord Henry," Raoul spoke for her. "She sang last night after you had left, but that was only to entertain the guests. We are happy enough together without her being forced to perform."

Harry watched as the Comte smiled across the dinner table at his paled wife. She gave an unconvincing smile back before lowering her eyes. There was something intriguing here, and Harry would hate himself if he didn't pry it out.

"That's wonderful to hear!" Harry said with a hint of sarcasm. "To be happy enough is better than to not be happy at all, wouldn't you say Comtesse? Though I had heard about that performance last night in your music room. They say she was sensational. But more than anything there was speculation about a guest of yours whom I understand accompanied the Comtesse with a piano."

"I think you mean M. Gabriel de Tophet," offered Raoul.

"Yes," said Harry. "No one seems to know who he is. They only know that there is something remarkable about him. I confess all this speculation with no answers fascinates me."

"We know nothing about him either," Raoul confessed. "Apart from his name, of course."

"If we could all only have a name the world would be a simpler place," mused Harry before he paused a moment. "I heard the Marquise say this morning that she heard the young man was an admirer of Miss Daaé during her days at the opera. He's already had the honor of playing for you once; I would not be surprised if he sought another chance. The only thing more persistent that a fanatic is a creditor."

Though he was speaking to the Comtesse, his eyes flickered over to the Comte for a moment. Raoul smiled with some pride that his wife was admired and that he was married to her. But as he looked across the table to his Christine, that proud smile faltered slightly, which drew Harry's eyes back to her.

"Christine?" Raoul said quietly.

The Comtesse pursed her lips a moment before offering a small smile. "I had been so busy today that I forgot to tell you, Raoul… M. de Tophet called this morning while you were away."

Raoul's face drew a blank. "Oh?"

"He had composed some music and wanted me to sing for him," she tried to tell it as though it meant little to her, but a slight tremble in her voice betrayed her. "He's developing an amazing opera. I sang only one song from it, but it has promise to be something wonderful. I'd never heard such music before."

Raoul was staring at her, and Lord Henry could only guess what was going through the Comte's mind. He was no doubt wondering why she neglected to mention it before, why she was obviously not as indifferent as she played to be, and that her chance to sing such a 'wonderful' song could be forgotten until now.

"Everything is wonderful when it's incomplete. Leaves room for us to compensate with our imaginations," Harry broke the awkward silence that threatened to fall. "And musicians are just as ridiculous as painters when it comes to their craft. They pour their heart and soul into something only to keep it from the world and fade into oblivion. That is why artists are my favorite kinds of people. This does make M. de Tophet much more tantalizing, I dare say. Not only is he remarkably good looking, but he seems to have talent as well…"

"His talent is left to speculation," Raoul murmured as he picked up his own wine.

"I heard it myself, Raoul," the Comtesse showed an unbecoming frown.

"Yes, of course," the Comte forced a smile.

And there it was. Jealousy. As it reared its magnificent head, Lord Henry was thrilled. Perhaps it was cruel to stir up such things between a newly wedded couple, but it was destined to come eventually. And if it had to happen, Harry wanted to be there to see it! The rest of the evening was spent in idle chat, all the while Raoul making sarcastic comments about music or talent and Christine showing more guilt than she intended to. Lord Henry had seen enough guilty girls, thanks to his late friend Dorian, and he learned to tell the difference between the ones who were guilty of a thought or guilty of an act.

Christine was guilty of thoughts.


	15. 15 Dropping Eaves

15. DROPPING EAVES

Aimless. That was what Dorian had become. He once had hobbies, desires, obsessions, and conquests. A life of endless parties filled with pomp or debauchery. He was constantly at odds with managing his calendar with all of the invitations he received daily. Now, all he had to look forward to was a visit from the man who called himself Gabriel to bring him food, like a mangy dog waiting to be fed with hopeful expectancy. It was humiliating, but more than ever, he now realized, it was lonely. He did not want to hide in the shadows for the rest of his life, or an eternity if that was what he was doomed to. It wasn't just the loneliness that made him eagerly await Gabriel's arrival. It was also what he imagined to be whispers around him, judging eyes always on him when he knew there was no one around.

Always when Gabriel would at last arrive at the catacombs, he came with a parcel beneath his arm that was filled with bread and cheese, perhaps sausage if Dorian was lucky. He endeavored to make the delivery of the food brief, the extent of his conversation being to inquire whether or not Dorian was upholding his end of the bargain. That is, the simple task of haunting the Comte de Chagny like a ghost. Dorian could only reply that he would do so as often as he was able, which was rare. He could never muster the courage to leave the shadows now that he was being provided for.

During these deliveries, Dorian beseeched him to stay for some conversation, even if it was for as long as he ate his meal. At first, Gabriel was more than obliging. The man had intellect to match the face that had been usurped from Dorian, which was something of a relief. Gabriel had seen more of the world than Dorian had and was a self-proclaimed master of many trades. He even touched vaguely on a history spent in the company of a young Sultana and her love for torture as entertainment. He pressed Gabriel to learn more of this fascinating and delightfully dark story, but he promised to tell more in his next visit of bringing food. But after two weeks, Gabriel stopped coming.

Dorian knew he had been abandoned. Beauty could seldom give charity to the hideous for long, and he knew he would not have had even half as much sympathy as Gabriel showed. Despite his understanding, it wounded him to be deserted. Worst of all, it necessitated that he leave his hiding place to seek nourishment. At a loss as to where to go, he resolved to try to find Gabriel first.

It was morning and he went directly to the chapel. But there was only the priest. Making certain that his deformity was well concealed he questioned the good priest about Gabriel's recent whereabouts.

"M. de Tophet had left no more than an hour ago, my son," answered Father Jean-Baptiste Guillame.

"To where?"

"He did not say and I did not ask. I hope there is no trouble…" the priest looked at him with a mixture of worry and suspicion. He was protective of the handsome Gabriel against this hidden stranger. How Dorian wished he could be the innocent looking one again!

With hardly another word spoken, he left the chapel. If he was to track Gabriel in his mysterious wandering, he would begin by seeking the one thread that could lead to him: de Chagny. What Dorian failed to tell Gabriel was that he only partially upheld his end of the bargain. Only twice did he expose his foul face to the Comte from a dark shadow, and in both cases it practically made the poor aristocrat faint with terror. To evoke such a reaction was like twisting off a limb for Dorian every time he committed it. Besides, he did not know the point in scaring Raoul. What had the young man ever done to Dorian, or anyone for that matter?

He waited outside of the Chagny chateau, concealed behind a wall of ivy that clung to the iron gate. He was there for hours (how many, he didn't know) when the Comte at last emerged from his home clad in a well-fitting suit and top hat. He followed Raoul through Paris to a quaint, but respectful, little café that sat in the shadow of the newly erected Eiffel Tower. Dorian knew this café well… but the last time he visited it there was no eyesore of a monument looming over it.

From some distance behind, he watched as Raoul approached a man sitting alone at a small table. The man was obviously waiting for the Comte, idly sipping some tea or possibly coffee. As he rose to greet de Chagny, and as Dorian crept nearer, he was surprised to recognize Lord Henry Wotton.

The two men began to chat immediately, and with nonchalance that was perfected by years of practice, Dorian strolled to a nearby table and seated himself with his profile facing the other men. That profile, however, was well hidden beneath his scarf and hat, and the weather was just barely chilly enough to account for it.

"It leaves me in a painfully dire state, Lord Henry," Raoul spoke feverishly. "I don't know what to do."

"Ask her." Harry said with his famous bluntness that cut through the air with ease.

"I don't dare…" Raoul slouched dejectedly.

Harry watched him coolly and unmoving, one leg crossed over the other as a cigarette burned between two fingers. "You said it yourself that this so-called 'ghost' you've been seeing was once a menace to Christine. She ought to have the right to know, shouldn't she?" Harry's tone was somewhat patronizing, but the distraught Comte didn't seem to notice.

"I could be going mad," Raoul's tone implied that it was a better alternative.

"Now really, Monsieur le Comte, you should never believe rumors about yourself. There's nothing more disappointing than a person who lets themselves fit into a mold shaped by gossipmongers. Breaking the mold is so much more fun, I always say." Dorian could see Harry's mustache turn up with a wry smile. It made Dorian smile as well. How he missed his friend's corruptive advice.

"Besides," Harry went on, pausing only to pull from his cigarette, "the rumors stemmed from a cliché. It was assumed that you and Philippe were feuding over Christine. I've heard them speculate that you went mad and killed him yourself, but from what I gather, no one really believes it. And neither should you."

"I at least know for certain who killed my brother, even if the police never will," Raoul said bitterly. "It was the Opera Ghost."

Harry's body froze, and slowly he leaned forward with sudden interest. "_Opera_ Ghost, you say? You don't mean to tell me that it's the same one you believe has been following you?"

"There's only one," Raoul shuddered. "Lord Henry, he had the head of death and even smelled of it. It isn't a sight that one is likely to forget or mistaken."

"I can very well imagine…" Harry's voice betrayed some sincere understanding, and Dorian knew why. Harry had seen it for himself, after all. "One can scarcely attend the opera as often as I have without hearing at least whispers of the Phantom of the Opera. There was quite a row, if I recall, when my friends and I requested Box 5… Of course, it is the manifestation of superstitious theatre people. They are all wonderfully detached from reality."

"It was all very much real," Raoul said defensively. "And it's coming back into our lives somehow. I don't dare to take her to the opera or even speak of it, nor has she ever requested to. We were happy and content. Until _he_ came into our house…"

"You mean M. Gabriel de Tophet?" Lord Henry said with interest.

"He has been visiting every other day," Raoul's tone quickened with stirred emotion. "He comes and plays his music for my wife. Don't misunderstand me, Lord Henry, I am not against her experiencing music. I just… I can't bear to see the way he looks at her."

"You're jealous." Harry said the obvious. "Is M. de Tophet a handsome man?"

Raoul's mouth tightened. Harry grinned.

"I see… Well, Raoul, you really needn't fear. Women are predictably superficial as well as logical. His music and his looks may entice her, but you are the one with the title and the ring. She'll not stray far."

Even in his peripheral vision, Dorian could see the young Comte turning red with embarrassment or fury.

"How can you say such things so easily? You do not know my wife!"

"I know that she is a young and beautiful woman who was not born into aristocracy. That is enough." Harry languidly puffed at his cigarette. He eyed the Comte through the smoke. "And you care more than a _trusting_ husband should."

The young man's heart was being pulled at relentlessly and his face fell into a gloved hand. "I curse the day that I had met Gabriel de Tophet…"

"Really?" Harry murmured with thought. "Now I am more intrigued than ever to meet the young man…"

That made Dorian's heart leap. What would Harry do if he saw the face of Dorian Gray on another man? Would he think it was an eerie coincidence or would he believe Gabriel to be Dorian? Following all of these bewildering thoughts, his mind then rested upon a sudden realization. Gabriel had been spending his time elsewhere. It was with the Comtesse. He was exploiting his new face to attain a woman who should be, on all accounts, improbable to reach. (Improbable only because Dorian had gone on many a similar venture with betrothed or married women when he was beautiful.)

But he sensed there was more to it… Gabriel was not a philanderer like Dorian had been. This man, in all his manners and ways of speaking, was calculated. He was devising something and it involved the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny. And somewhere in this mess was interwoven the tale of the Phantom of the Opera.


	16. 16 Sing For Me

16. SING FOR ME

Fulfilling his promise, Erik returned to the chateau de Chagny the following day. This time, Christine anticipated his arrival. He predicted her need for music would make her eager, but to see _her_ open the door, rather than one of the servants of the household, was a pleasant surprise. They engaged only briefly in idle chatter of social propriety before retreating to the music room where he played yet another new piece of unfinished music, and she sang with all of her being. The look of freedom on her face, even though she did not fully face him, could only be compared to the ecstatic flight pattern of a bird set free from its gilded cage.

This went on for weeks. Erik, known only as "Gabriel," would arrive with his music secured beneath his arm, and Christine would sing for him. In all that time, he had the misfortune of encountering the Comte a total of three times. The first meeting was ridiculously cordial, the second interestingly indifferent, and the third… the third was fraught with cold and silent glares from the young aristocrat.

If anyone knew the symptoms of jealousy, it was Erik. He had seen the young man jealous before, incidentally. It was during the days that Raoul was her foolishly aspiring suitor. He would call on Christine in her dressing room and she would speak to him about her beloved Angel of Music. And from behind the walls, Erik would watch her protectively and see that look of suspicion on de Chagny's face. The tables turned, however, when her adoration turned away from her Angel and to the young fool of a Vicomte.

Turnabout is always fair play and now Comte de Chagny had to watch as a handsome and undeniably brilliant composer satisfied his wife without even touching her. To touch her… Even now, when he had everything one could wish for, he did not dare to think it. When he was hideous, the thought of touching her was abominable. Now that he had M. Gray, who now wore his deathly face, he had a reminder of his low position. He may have had the face of an Adonis, but inside he was sure he was still a beast.

But how he _ached_ for her…

This was his eleventh visit to the de Chagny household. Raoul had left almost as soon as Erik arrived, though begrudgingly due to business that would not allow him to stay as a chaperone. His need to supervise made Christine delightfully indignant, but still pleasant. As always, Erik was seated at the grand piano, his fingers playing madly over the keys and Christine's angelic voice echoing through the halls. She was standing beside the piano, her posture straight and her chin high, but not too high as to constrict her vocal chords. Her eyes as she sang his music were distant, staring beyond the walls and into a world of dreams and sensation that only _he_ could reveal to her.

Her song reached its climactic finish, and as always, he was as breathless as she was. Her voice was the only glimpse he would ever have of Heaven, and so even though the echoes of her song now faded away, he could not look away from her. Enough time had passed to change her from the naïve child he had coached at the opera, but she was still his Christine. At last, she turned. She caught his eye, her simple glance begging approval. That simple glance, however, sent a wave of fire through him. It was that pain which tormented him for as long as he had loved her.

Their eyes had become locked. He could see her wavering, but unable to look away or speak. What fastened his eyes to hers was not merely their beauty or his own enthrallment of her. It was also a look in her gaze that he thought –_dared-_ to think was longing. Then, she blinked, breaking their locked eyes and looking resolutely to the floor.

"You are a brilliant composer, Gabriel…" she said quietly. "Have- have you ever submitted your work?"

Her attempt at idle conversation seemed ridiculous when she was visibly wringing her hands and looking away. He could not help the smirk which graced his handsome face, and he reached to close the leather-bound book before him that held the sheets of music.

"Never until it is perfected," he replied. "And an artist's work is never perfect. Being here now, hearing _you_ sing my music is more glory than any applauding crowd could give me. But you, Christine… you demand their applause. You could astound them all with just one breath. You are meant to make them weep at the sound of your voice."

"Please, M. de Tophet… That is no longer my world."

She was recoiling back to formalities and still did not have the courage to look at him, which made him all the more insistent. "You are meant to numb the world with awe!"

"You should not be speaking in such a way…" her voice was losing its strength while he gained more fervor.

"You belong in the opera, Christine…" he lowered his voice to a whisper as he slowly rose from the piano bench. Careful steps were taken towards her. "The shackles of marriage are melted away by the footlights of the stage and the scrutiny of society is nonexistent while you have the praise of Paris!"

He could see her eyes glaze with nostalgia as distant memories were stirred within her. The opera was in her blood, he knew that better than she did. He knew as well that along with those memories of singing before a star struck audience were those years of being coached by her Angel of Music. She once treasured those years of worshipping him and being worshipped by him.

"I don't wish to be praised," she said after a pause, her tone revealing the lie.

"Wishing has no place where Fate is in command," he crept nearer to her, his voice remaining at a whisper. "You were meant for the opera. You cannot let your little Comte keep you from it."

"Raoul has never forbidden me from returning," she said defensively. "It was my own choice."

"Was it?" he challenged.

She made no reply, her eyes remaining averted to the floor. A small crease appeared between her brows as she struggled within herself. He could almost read her mind and feel the pain of her conflict.

"Christine," he whispered. As his breath reached her ear, her eyes drew closed. At last he was rediscovering the strings that he once controlled her with. "Christine… You and I both thrive on music. Without it, we are only half alive. That is not something that anyone else could be expected to understand, for they can never _feel_ music as we do! It may resound in their ears or stir their feeble emotions, but you and I have it in our blood- our very souls. A note can stir more than a tear or a thought, it can stir all of the sensations within us and that is why without it we die all the quicker…"

Her eyes remained closed and her chest began to rise and fall rapidly as she battled within herself. He too could feel his heart pounding faster as he inched ever nearer to her. She was only a breath away, the scent of her reaching his nostrils and the warmth of her skin tingling his hand as it hovered tremulously over her shoulder. Why didn't he have the courage to touch her?

"You cannot deny any longer that you need it, Christine," he went on, his hand ready to tremble as it desperately wanted to merely touch her, but was repelled by fear and self-loathing. "Music is the preserver of your soul… Return to the opera with me. _Sing for me…_"

Like a cold wind, those three words made her visibly shudder. Finally, her eyes fluttered open again and she turned slowly to face him. Her lips were only a matter of inches from his own, her eyes burrowing into his. But she did not turn away or even think to shrink from him. She did not speak or move away. Instead, she ventured to move closer until her soft lips touched his own, and it made him freeze.

That ache, which had always tore him from within like a madness, was now ripping wildly away at his core. Fearfully, but with a lifetime of longing, he gently kissed her. It made his head spin and his heart stop. It was the dream he never dared to dream coming to fruition and he was certain he felt the chill of death from such joy. Her hands rested upon his breast, her fingers curling into the lapels of his coat as she held him near. It was beyond anything he could have imagined and he would not let such a moment slip away without at least embracing her with his own arms, to hold her without protest. The joy was so much that, as he kissed her, the tears fled down his smooth cheeks.

Abruptly, and to his great disappointment, she pulled away and replaced the cold air between them. She was no longer facing him, she was looking fearfully towards the door. His senses returned quickly as he followed her gaze. Standing there, struck with a look of pain and disgust, was Raoul. Speechless, the Comte blinked away tears and turned quickly from the door.

"Raoul!" Christine's voice cracked as she moved to follow him.

But jealousy is a constant companion and Erik seized her by her wrist. "Let him go!"

"He is my husband!" she tried to wrench herself free as she fought the tears.

"He is your captor!" Erik seethed and pulled her forcefully towards him. "Come with me, Christine!"

"_No!_" she screamed with such anguish that it loosened his hold on her.

The instant she was free, she was collecting her skirt and dashing from the music room to pursue her husband. Jealousy blinded him and provoked a feral rage. He stormed after them. He could hear their voices echo in the foyer, but when he heard the words exchanged, his feet planted themselves firmly on the rug and he slinked out of sight.

"Raoul, _please_!" Christine said desperately.

"Enough, Christine!" the Comte's voice boomed, and by the prickling pause that followed, he ventured to guess that Christine had never been on the receiving end of such a tone before. "I would have died for you! I have given you everything, _including_ my heart! Why can't I keep you, Christine? Why must there always be something to take you away from me?"

"I _am_ yours, Raoul!" she wept. "Please, I love you…" she lost her voice, or perhaps words.

"And I love you, Christine…" he said meekly. "But I'm growing tired of loving you! Seeing you kissing _him_… It makes my love for you feel like a lost cause!"

"Raoul, I…" she lost her voice again, her inner turmoil hindering any plausible explanation from escaping.

"No… I am done… Leave me be…" Raoul's voice choked and Erik could hear his anguished steps ascend the staircase.

As he listened to this scene, a smile splayed across his handsome face. This was an unexpected happening. Unwittingly, he had created a rift between Christine and her precious Comte. He had snaked his way between them, now all that was needed was the severing blow.


	17. 17 Approaching Shadows

17.

APPROACHING SHADOWS

He did not think there was sight more terrifying, more blood curdling than that of his own face. That is until such a new sight sent him running, almost flying, from the catacombs like a moth stirred from dead leaves. He did not stop running until he found himself within the walls of the chapel in which he had first beheld Gabriel.

There was no one in there, save for and old widow who bowed her head in prayer. It was long after dark, and all the more reason that Dorian was now in need of sanctuary. Shaken down to his accursed bones, he folded much like a child in front of the altar. Quietly he sobbed into his scarf, praying frantically in his mind for salvation. Suddenly, a hand weighed upon his shoulder. In his fright, Dorian shrank away from the touch, half lying across the steps of the altar as he looked up from beneath the brim of his low hat. It was Father Guillame.

"What troubles you so deeply, my son?" he asked at a gentle whisper.

Immediately, like a man drowning at sea, Dorian seized his robes. "They've come for me! I was safe from them, Father, after I paid my dues! But it can never be mine… it belongs to them and they have come to remind me of my debt!"

The priest, as though he were the boy's father, laid his hand atop the crown of the hat. "What is this debt?

"My soul!" Dorian said meekly into the robes that smelled like candle wax. "I sold my soul for vanity, and when my suffering is deemed sufficient they will come for it…" He lifted his concealed face, his ink black eyes clouded with tears as he looked desperately to the clergyman. "Am I beyond any redemption? Could God allow a hypocrite the chance to save his own soul? I can be good; I _have_ been good! I have not squandered my second chance!"

"God will always forgive," said Father Guillame with certainty. "So long as we sinners accept the Lord and see our follies through unbiased eyes, and so long as we repent for all of our sins, we can all be saved. No matter how hopeless."

Dorian stared almost bewilderedly. The priest was sure of himself, as is expected from a man of the cloth. Faith was about certainty, not proof, and that aspect did not comfort him. But what if there was that chance of righting the wrongs he had committed in his wicked life? The pain he caused in the name of pleasure, the blood that stained his hands when he turned on his dearest friend like a rabid animal? If he could be forgiven by God, then perhaps Basil too could forgive him. And would full repentance bestow to him the beautiful face that he had once (and always) treasured? That face… The image of it in his mind all at once quelled his tears and inspired him.

"I see…" he breathed, his hollow eyes returning to Father Guillame. "I see now what I must do. I can never reverse the sins that I have committed, I know. But I _can_ prevent others! I can stop evil when it preys upon good!"

This made the priest give an empty smile, one that Dorian was coherent enough in his newfound excitement to recognize as false piety. But he didn't care.

"May I sleep here for the night, Father?" he asked quietly, remembering the shadows that pursued him from the catacombs. "In the chapel? I don't dare leave…"

"Of course, my son. All are welcome here."

Somehow Dorian imagined the hellish shadows uttering the same words, and it made him shudder. They petrified him, and no matter how morose he became about his hideous state, he could not succumb to them. Living in an ugly Purgatory was better than a debtor's Hell.


	18. 18 Angel of Music, Harbinger of Caution

18.

ANGEL OF MUSIC, HARBINGER OF CAUTION

Raoul had seen her kissing another man; a man whom she hardly knew. The fight that ensued was beyond any conflict that the young lovers had ever endured. It was also the source of Raoul's anger that Christine was stolen from him by music. She was not so easily seduced by mere sound, she knew she wasn't. It had only ever been her false Angel that seemed to be the master of her through a heavenly melody. How was it that Gabriel had the same power?

What was more, how could she ever lead Raoul to understand? She loved him, she never doubted that. But something in Erik's— and now Gabriel's— music coerced her soul into submission. It quenched a spiritual thirst while augmenting it. How was she to battle such a craving?

Raoul refused to see her the rest of the night after he left her devastated and alone in the foyer. She was too heartbroken to cry immediately, and she could only think to blame Gabriel. But when she returned to the music room, it was empty. He had left silently and quickly. _Who was he?_

That night, she was to sleep alone. Raoul had stormed out into the dusk without a word of where he was going or when he would return. She wanted to chase after him, but she didn't have the courage. Not after how angry he was with her, and rightfully so… Eventually, the sun was set and darkness enveloped Paris.

After changing into her nightgown, she had wrapped herself in bed for what little comfort could be found. Her emotions were confusing her. Her mind called her to Raoul, but her soul pulled her to Gabriel, and torn in two between them both was her weakening heart. She did not know how much more she could take. The tears at last came, and painfully so. Their arrival brought a quick sleep as they drained what remaining strength she had left.

Then, sometime in her peaceful slumber, the small hairs on her body stood on end. She woke slowly as the eerie song of a violin reached her ears. It was playing a melody that she had heard long ago… a melody that had once been under the enigmatic title of _Don Juan Triumphant._ But as wakefulness took over and she sat upright in bed, the tune seemed to make a flawless transition in a more recent song. One from_ Hades and Persephone_. Gabriel's music.

The night felt later, but how late she could not tell. Nor could she think to find out as the silver glow of moonlight gave the illusion of a dream. Hastily, she slipped out of the bed and threw on her robe. She followed the sound of the sorrowful music to her window, and opening the casement, she peered out into the sleeping garden. At first she saw nothing beyond the otherworldly shadows. Then, near one of the rose hedges she saw him. The cloaked figure that played the violin as divinely as its music played her.

Her heart seemed to cease in its beating. The musician who so masterfully controlled the tremulous sounds from the strings that reached across the instrument's neck also seemed to control Christine's every movement. She slipped away from the window, gliding downstairs and through the grand corridors of the house until she came to the terrace doors that led to the garden. Dazedly, she opened them and stepped out into the cool air of the night.

The night breeze whispered around her, carrying the notes of the violin to surround her like flourish of golden petals. And she followed it. She followed it without a thought of danger, consequence, or even Raoul. Music had taken her under its spell once more and she was powerless against it.

At last, her bare feet carried her across the stones and around the hedge which revealed the cloaked figure. He was waiting for her, she knew, and he continued to play without pause.

"Come…" a melodious voice spoke to her.

Had the voice held any resemblance to an earthly sound, she might have been stirred from her trance. Instead, it beckoned her forward. She floated towards the shadow, and when she was only half of an arm's reach away, he stopped playing. The violin was lowered to his side, concealed beneath the cloak. Then, a porcelain hand appeared and extended its perfect fingers towards her, the palm facing the stars invitingly.

She slipped her hand into his, the warmth of it sending a wave of heat throughout her body. Her heartbeat seemed to return with a vengeance as it now pounded deafeningly in her ears.

"Will you return to me, Christine?" the voice whispered.

"Who are you?" she could barely speak above the breeze that brushed her hair.

"Don't you know?" the shadowed head canted and his fingers curled gently around her small hand. "Have you not known me as long as you have known yourself?"

"I feel that I do know you…" she spoke with wonder. "I cannot know how… or why… You can feel my pain…" the notion then conflicted as it reversed in her mind immediately. "Or do I feel yours?"

"We can be free of this pain," the voice coaxed sweetly as he pulled her hand to his cloaked chest, drawing her so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her face. "Come with me and music shall be our sustenance…"

She could feel her body melting, her limbs losing all capability as a strong arm suddenly supported her around the waist. All the while, she was trusting this shadow of a man who seemed more song than substance. And as he drew her in, his breath colliding with her own for an imminent kiss, an icy chill of death ran through her. A pang of recognition ignited her senses back to life and a sharp gasped escaped her.

"_Erik?_" But the possibility was too difficult to believe and her mind sought the next logical conclusion. "Or Gabriel?" But even as she uttered it her confusion only worsened.

"_Your Angel of Music_," the voice sang to her, lulling any coherent thought from her mind once again.

How she longed for her Angel and dreamt of a way for him to return to her, and here he was. Beautiful and magical in his gift of music. When he pulled her delicate chin upwards towards his shadowed face, she could not resist. Their lips touched, the heat of their exchange creating a whirlwind inside of her. She was becoming lost and let herself slip into the comforting darkness…

"_Christine?_" Raoul's voice came from within the house. "_Christine!_"

The sound of her husband calling her name shattered the dream. The ground suddenly became harsh beneath her bare feet and the night breeze felt sharp and relentless. It was with some delay that she thought to break the kiss. She was not waking from a dream in which she had been walking in her sleep. She was in actuality in the arms of a cloaked figure whose mouth was as mesmerizing in sound as it was in touch. And the reality of the dream suddenly terrified her.

"Raoul…" she whispered, her eyes flickering from the dark house to the one who embraced her protectively.

"Come away with me…" the voice quietly commanded, and yet pleaded.

Her body pressed nearer to the Angel, something deep inside her willing to be swept away into the shadows where she could remain forever.

"_Christine!_"

Raoul's voice turned her head once more. Her hand came to her mouth and she eased away from the Angel.

The shadow inhaled sharply, that pale had tightening into a fist.

"Christine!" This time Raoul's voice echoed out into the garden, his footsteps thudding across the stones as he searched for her. Within moments, he darted into view from around the hedge. He froze as he beheld the dark figure and in the moonlight she could see Raoul's face lengthen.

"Who are you?" he asked as bravely as he could.

"A harbinger!" the voice seethed as it slinked slowly backward. "I bring a message from shadows, monsieur le Comte: _Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!_"

The words were churned with a fiery wrath, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished into the shadows of the night. All at once, the terror surged through her. That was Erik!

"Raoul!" she said weakly, her legs threatening to give out from under her.

She nearly collapsed to the floor, but she was caught by her husband and carried to safety within the house.

He had her. He _had_ her! And as always, she was forced to return to Raoul! She could never truly be his so long as that Comte was around, this Erik had always known. But now, more than ever, he knew what needed to be done.

Since the moment he saw de Chagny enter Christine's dressing room, Erik relished the idea of seeing him dead. But the young fool was dear to her and not even the Opera Ghost could overlook that. In fact, he had used it against her in the most diabolical way. As he now watched the lights illuminate the sleeping house, he wished that the naïve Comte could simply disappear by a fortuitous accident. Only then could Christine be _his_ for the taking…


	19. 19 Preparations

19.

PREPARATIONS

Dorian stayed in the chapel for as long as he thought he could without anyone catching a glimpse of his face by accident, or asking why he always kept it hidden. The curious glances that seemed to accrue finally drove him quietly from the small house of God, and he crept in the darkness of dusk to the Barrière d'Enfer; to the catacombs where he belonged.

But as he descended into the dank caverns, the smell of mold filling his nostrils, he recalled the words of Lord Henry. Words that had once been the creed of Dorian Gray:

"_To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul._"

Now his senses and his soul mutually destroyed one another. There was no perfume, woman, or opiate that could cure what he had now become. These bitter thoughts were interrupted by a sound echoing though the tunnels as he approached his usual hiding spot.It slowed him into an inching creep as he approached, the small light of the candle flickering on the wall around the bend where skulls leered out.

He could hear the walls being scraped by something metallic and the shuffle of shoes as they worked diligently. It could have been a city worker doing repairs of some kind. Or perhaps a burglar? Fear of being discovered began to rise within him and he turned to flee, but his own shoes crunched loudly upon the earth and all at once the nearby sounds stopped. Dorian froze for an instant, but with a quick resolve to escape, he completed his turn to hurry down the tunnels. Only a few steps were managed, however, when he found himself face to face with a formidable shadow.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten our bargain," a musical voice spoke from the silhouette.

Dorian cried out fearfully, his mind telling him that this shadow was none other than Lucifer himself, come to collect. He pushed the dark figure and attempted to run, but he was seized by the collar and pulled backward and toward the distant light.

"Be quiet! You're in no danger!"

Before he knew it, he was thrust to the floor beside a single candle. When he lifted his gaze, he saw that he was surrounded by barrels, rope, and metal digging tools of various sorts. A shovel had been stabbed upright into the ground to serve as a rack for a black cloak and coat. Then, walking within the radius of the light was the slender form of Gabriel, stripped down to a white shirt and loosened waistcoat, his sleeves rolled to the elbow and his hands black from work. Dorian hardly knew whether or not he was relieved to see Gabriel rather than the Devil.

"You've been gone for so long," Gabriel began quietly, "I did not think you would mind a few… renovations."

The grin that splayed on the handsome face was beautifully diabolical. Dorian slowly eased himself to his feet, haphazardly brushing the dirt from his already pitiful clothing.

"I was not gone so very long…" he murmured.

"Two days is a long time to go without eating. I brought you food, as I promised. I think it only reasonable to assume that you were _not_ out terrorizing monsieur le Comte like I had requested. Where were you?" His eyes were keen on Dorian.

"The chapel… I needed refuge. Had I anywhere else to go, I would never have returned here…"

"Loneliness?" Gabriel assumed the reason for Dorian's brief holiday. "Learn to live with it, M. Gray. For with that face, you will never have more company than I and you will never be loved."

That melodious voice was beginning to irritate Dorian with its words. From the beginning it had spoken down to him like he was nothing more than a hideous blot on the earth.

"Then you honestly believe a handsome face will ensure you love?" Dorian peered up from beneath the brim of his hat.

"My reliance on beauty is limited," said Gabriel as he leaned carefully upon the skeletal wall. "But I am at least allowed to hope now that I have this face."

This made Dorian laugh for the first time in what seemed ages, but it was bitter. "Hope for what? That it will mask the deception you've been so carefully conducting?"

An unbecoming crease appeared on Gabriel's youthful face. "Oh? Deceiving who?"

"The Comtesse de Chagny. You have some plot in mind, there can't be any other reason why you would have me drive fear into her husband. It's a fear of recognition for a face that _you_ once had. I've seen enough to piece together your covetous intentions for his wife. She is beautiful, but if my suspicions are true that she once knew you as well, then your mask will become thinner and thinner. You will have to change more than your face to win her."

Gabriel was unmoving as he listened, then he slowly canted his head. "Then what is your worldly advice, M. Gray?"

"I am convinced that we have both been given a chance. By whom or what, I'm afraid to know… Neither of us were men of righteousness in the past, but now we can prove our worth. We can prove that our souls are not masked or represented by our faces, as I had been taught to believe… Deception will only ensure your misery in the end, Gabriel."

"And your own act of deception is acceptable?" Gabriel smirked.

"I am deceiving no one," Dorian said confidently.

"No one but yourself," Gabriel laughed. "You have the righteousness of any man on his way to the gallows. As though your last few hours of spirituality will compensate for a lifetime of sin. I have seen dozens of men find God on the brink of death and it is always too late and too hollow. Desperation will cause any one to make empty promises, and you are no different."

"You don't know anything about me," Dorian murmured bitterly.

"I have learned enough. It turns out that you are quite notorious, even in Parisian society. The name of Dorian Gray is synonymous with words like 'corruption' and 'immorality.' I was almost impressed until you exhibited your hypocrisy just now. While you may be ignoring your past, M. Gray, I am trying to rectify mine. There is no crime in trying to gain what one deserves."

Dorian could feel his anger bubbling as he was mocked by his own visage. Gabriel was no more a saint than Dorian was or had ever been. They both knew that. Yet, Dorian was the one to suffer ugliness. All at once, as Gabriel spoke down to him, the feeling of despair began to fade away, and in its place arose a different emotion. It burned, but it was flavored with determination. Was it righteousness? Yes. Dorian felt for the first time in his selfish life the need to do destroy evil. And that evil was Gabriel.

Gabriel seemed to take Dorian's silence as a triumph and returned to his mysterious tinkering. He took up a chisel and a hammer and began to tap gently at one of the skulls which had been lodged in there. It looked as though he was intending to take it out. Dorian watched curiously for a moment, and when he couldn't figure out what Gabriel was doing, he finally decided to ask.

"You said you were doing renovations?" he asked quietly.

Gabriel paused in his chiseling, his beautiful eyes peering over his shoulder. "One might call them preparations." This finally brought him to lower the tools and face the other completely, a judging eye cast down on him. "I had every intention of employing your singular talent for my plan, but I now have reason to believe you want nothing to do with me. After all that I have done for you…"

There was warmth within Dorian as he felt that tingle of control; the confidence to once again fool all those who saw and heard him of his true intentions. There was a time when Dorian fancied himself that famous smiler with the dagger beneath his cloak. Gabriel was not the only devious one. So, putting on his best air of defeat that had saved him from many a blame in the past, he sank backwards against the cold wall.

"It is true that you have been generous to me, monsieur… You've shown me more sympathy than I ever would have in your position. And though I have yet to trust you fully, I cannot ignore the fact that you are the only soul I can even remotely identify as a friend…"

It was obvious that Gabriel heard the faux bitterness in Dorian's voice as he looked curiously and questionably down at him. "If my ears are not misleading me, it sounds as though you abhor the fact that I have aided you."

"Abhor is too powerful a word," Dorian quietly corrected. "Rather it places me at an uncomfortable status… I feel the obligation of owing you for your favors. If I could pay them back, I would gladly be done with you."

For a moment, he thought he had misspoken and only evoked Gabriel's wrath as the other let fall the chisel and hammer from his hand. He advanced slowly on him, his youthful face canting as he drew nearer.

"I daresay you think I am a debt collector…"

"Aren't you?" Dorian cast his eyes upward to the handsome one who loomed over him.

Gabriel's lips curled into a half-smile. "Of sorts, I suppose… Tell me, if I offered you that chance to pay back my generosities with only one small price, would you take it? Thereby dissolving our bargain once and for all?"

Dorian wanted to grin at his victory, but instead he showed only a frown of suspicion. "What is the price?"

"Only that you recommence your end of our original deal by stalking the Comte de Changy. But this time I wish for you to lure him somewhere."

That was not what Dorian had expected to hear, and this time his frown was genuine. "Lure him? Where?"

Gabriel gave a lovely smile. "Why, here of course. You don't think I would go through all this trouble for our benefit alone, do you?" A sweeping gesture was made at the mess that surrounded them in the cavern. "Besides, for what I have planned for this tomb, I think only monsieur le Comte can truly appreciate it."

"Are you… going to kill him?" Dorian feared asking.

That youthful face suddenly smoothed of all discernible expression, save for the slight escalation of the perfect brows. "I promise you, I shan't lay a hand on him."

Dorian was no foreigner to twisting words, and Gabriel had told him of his history as a master torturer in Persia with the use of architecture and engineering. Whatever it was he was doing here, it was all part of a scheme that combined man and machine. But, Dorian would not try to understand it all. He had his own plot to contend with. So, with a look of bewilderment, but understanding, he gave a singular nod.

"If it will sever our interaction once and for all, Gabriel, I will do what you ask of me."


	20. 20 Revelations

20.  
>REVELATIONS<p>

"_Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"_

Those few words had evoked within Raoul a feeling he had not felt since the days that he was courting Christine at the Opera House. Those sightings of the Phantom over the past months were passed off as imagination, but to hear those words _spoken_ once more filled him with panic. They were both in danger, but he could not understand from what. Regardless, he was on Rue Scribe and entering the Paris le Grand Hotel where Lord Henry had taken up a temporary residence. And before long he was being admitted into the Englishman's suite.

"This is an unexpected surprise, Comte," Harry said as the smoke from a cigarette escaped from his lips. "After we had only met the other day at the café…" He trailed off as he at last looked more closely at the young aristocrat's face. "You're white as a lily, dear boy! What the devil happened?"

"He appeared in our garden last night. He drew Christine out into the night and tried to take her!"

"Who?" Harry sank into a Louis-Philippe chair, his eyes intently focused on the youth.

"I can't even know!" Raoul passed a hand over his smooth brow. "Gabriel de Tophet, or the Phantom. I can't even tell the difference… But the Phantom is supposed to be dead! I had seen her with de Tophet with my very own eyes… She was kissing him!"

This brought Harry's ordinarily placid face to light up. "No!"

"Yes!" Raoul bemoaned. "This man—this _monster_ has her under some sort of spell that I am feeling powerless against! When I found her beside him in the garden, I could see her hesitant to return to me. I am losing her, Harry, and I am at a loss of what to do…"

"Well, keeping a lamb available to a wolf is hardly the rational thing to do," Lord Henry puffed his cigarette. "Get her out of Paris. Or perhaps out of France completely, if you want to match his madness."

Raoul's dread was suddenly quelled and he looked to Harry. The Englishman appeared suddenly like a Godsend. "Take her away?"

Why hadn't he considered it before? Obviously taking her away from the Opera House was not enough in the past, she needed to be taken beyond the Phantom's—or Gabriel's—reach.

"In fact, we can go together to England in the morning, if you like." Henry went on. "Paris has lost its charm for me, anyway."

"You would help me?"

A smile graced the dandy's face. "Don't sound so surprised, my dear boy, I've become quite fond of you. In some ways you remind me a friend I once had. Or rather, the way a friend of mine once was." Reaching, he smashed the hot end of his cigarette into a silver ashtray and pushed himself to his feet. "Come, we'll get started immediately."

His mauve robe was then unknotted as he made his way to the bedroom to change; all the while, speaking to the young Comte.

"Have you a yacht of your own, Raoul?"

"Yes, I do. That is, I inherited it from Philippe." Raoul followed Harry eagerly, awaiting the next step.

"Does she have a captain, or will you be able to acquire one on short notice?" Harry began to rummage in the oak wardrobe for a fresh suit. No doubt, he needed one that would suit the occasion.

"There is no need," Raoul spoke through the wooden door that divided them. "I can captain her myself."

"Oh!" Harry laughed. "I'd quite forgotten! Your brother had mentioned your time spent in the navy! Marvelous!"

Lord Henry fell quite as he chose with diligence his clothing for the night, making certain that he would have the right waistcoat and boutonnière to match. Meanwhile, Raoul could not help glancing around the ornate hotel room. The Englishman certainly had exquisite taste and seemed to be only suited for the most aesthetically pleasing environment.

But there was something that was far from aesthetic, which was laid flat with great care over the breakfast table by the window. It looked like an unframed canvas. As Raoul's curiosity brought him nearer to it, he realized that it was a rather damaged portrait. He seemed to recall Lord Henry mentioning the delivery of his late friend's painting of another friend's portrait. This must be it. As he drew nearer, however, he was able to see the lovely face of the painting's subject.

"Harry…" he barely managed to say above a whisper. "Who is the man in this portrait?"

Lord Henry had just pulled his black frock over his shoulders when Raoul drew his attention. "That would be Mr. Dorian Gray," he said solemnly.

"No…" Raoul shook his head. "No, that isn't."

"What do you mean?" Harry chuckled and turned to the mirror to check his mustache.

"That can't be Dorian Gray. That is Gabriel de Tophet. I know it is. There is no one else in the world that could look like that."

Harry paused in his preening and slowly turned to the Comte. "If you're joking, Comte, then I'm afraid it's beyond even my poor taste in humor."

Raoul looked to him sternly, to show that he was far from jesting due to the trepidation that now filled him. "I am gravely serious! That is the man who has been manipulating my wife!" A finger pointed at the dirty canvas. "And now I'm convinced that he is an imposter! It all makes sense… so little was known about him!"

"That's madness!" Harry forced a laugh. "You are saying that Dorian is this Gabriel?" All in an instant, though, even Harry seemed to find possibility in it. "It couldn't be… What would be the sense in it?"

Raoul shook his head and stepped away from the painting. "I don't know, Harry… But I must tell Christine! If she knows that he is a liar, then perhaps she will be able to resist his charms! I must go to her!"

And in a flash, the youth was rushing for the door. Harry called for him to slow down, but clumsily, the dandy managed to follow.


	21. 21 Following Ghosts

21.

FOLLOWING GHOSTS

Raoul promised her that he would not be gone long. Johannes had been given orders to admit no one but the Comte himself, and Christine wholeheartedly promised in return not to leave the house. She did not dare to after the bewildering night before.

The sun had just barely begun to set and her husband left only moments ago. She now sat in the parlor, the hearth lit at its brightest and the house hushed in a cautious whisper. Her eyes were fixed on her left hand as it rested in her lap, the firelight dancing off the golden surfaces of the two rings that she wore. One was given to her by Raoul, the other from Erik.

Why had she never taken it off?

She was in a confused daze as she stared at the metal objects. Each represented a promise, neither of wish she could imagine breaking. If staying with her husband, the man she truly loved, was the right thing to do, then why did she feel a sense of agony?

"Christine…"

The voice took the breath right out of her, and yet, it did not startle her. She had heard it enough times in her dreams that it was not unfamiliar. It was close behind the chair in which she sat.

"I knew you would come again…" she whispered without turning, not wishing the servants to hear.

"I will always come for you Christine."

"Why?" she closed her eyes beneath a frown. "You let me go once, why can't you leave me be?"

There was a long pause and she wondered if he was still there. Then:

"You know who I am then?" he asked quietly.

"Who else could you be?" there was spite in her voice this time. "I don't understand any of it… but I am certain of who you are."

"My love for you is just as certain, Christine…" his voice drew nearer as he seemed to lower to a knee beside her ear, but still out of sight. "No one can love you as I do. Not even your wealthy Comte. He is sure to leave you because he knows you will never belong to him in soul. It belongs to me."

"My soul is mine alone," her voice trembled as she forced strength into it, her head turning to watch the vague shadow in her peripheral.

"Perhaps…" he said with resign. "But you cannot deny that only I can speak to it."

"Erik?"

"Yes my love?" A hand timidly touched her elbow.

"I have always known that you love me… So why won't you leave me be? Why do you continue to torment me?"

"Because I need you to know that my love for you is eternal! I am certain that Raoul will forfeit his love for you. He knows his love for you can never match my own and that you deserve one who knows your needs and desires, as I do! And when he is gone, I will still be here for you, Christine. _Forever._"

His hand slipped from her arm and a silence fell. When there wasn't even a breath, she pushed herself quickly to her feet and spun to see where he once was. The only movement was the curtain of the window.

No.

She wasn't going let him melt into the shadows again with the last word. It had always been he who decided her feelings, her desires. It was time that she made a choice other than sitting and distressing.

Not another thought crossed her mind as she flew out the door of the parlor, darting out of the chateau and into the street. Down the street, she could see sweeping around the corner some distance ahead was a black shadow. Taking hold of the thick skirt that weighed her down, she ran down the damp street after him.

* * *

><p>Raoul had made a mad dash for home to share with his wife the confounding revelation that Gabriel de Tophet was in fact Dorian Gray, Lord Henry following him every step of the way. When they arrived at the grand house, however, the front door was wide open and the cold air was pouring into the foyer.<p>

Panic immediately seized the young Comte and his first course of action was to call out for Christine. Even when Johannes joined in on the search, she was nowhere to be found within the home and no response could be heard. Raoul was driven by fear, but had no direction to go. While Johannes and the other servants continued their search, Lord Henry could only look on as Raoul's panic escalated.

"I should never have left her alone…" he breathed with his eyes wide as he stared hopelessly at the rug. His feet carried him at a frantic pace around the foyer. "I may have lost her for good this time to that devil!"

"It's not too late, Raoul," Harry offered some rather unconvincing hope. "You should go to the police, they are really the only ones to help you find your wife."

"That is uncharacteristically optimistic of you Harry," a voice sounded, but its speaker could not be found.

Raoul had never heard the voice before, and his trepidation was momentarily interrupted as he looked about the room. He saw no one else but Harry, and the Englishman was pale as a corpse.

"I know that voice…" he whispered.

"I should hope so," it said morosely.

This time, both Harry and Raoul located where the voice was coming from, and in unison they turned towards the staircase. Standing atop the landing, partially concealed behind the thick column of the banister was a shadow.

"It's me, Harry…" A smile could be heard, but the face was hidden.

"Dorian?" Harry said warily.

Raoul had to tear his eyes from the shadow to look upon Harry. That looked like the Opera Ghost, if anything!

"Don't look so bewildered, monsieur le Comte," said the shadow. "I am indeed Dorian Gray."

"Then prove it!" Raoul's voice echoed up to him. "Stop your hiding and show your face!"

"No!" he replied scarcely before the demand was made. "I haven't a face to show… But believe me when I tell you I am not the Phantom. I have only been assigned to make you believe I was."

"So it was you that was following me?" Raoul was becoming more and more bewildered by the moment.

"Yes…"

"Dorian…" Harry finally showed a faltering smile as he stepped nearer to the foot of the staircase. "How is it that you're alive, my boy? We all thought you were dead and the thing that crawled out of your casket…" he seemed unable to finish the statement.

"That _was_ me, Harry…" the shadow's voice cracked with emotion. "Everyone was afraid of me and I was forced to flee. When I came here, I fell under the control of a cruel being… One who is wearing my face and using it to act out evil."

"Gabriel?" Raoul started forward anxiously. "Does he have my wife? Where's Christine?"

"I don't know," said Dorian. "Against my will he made me a part of his plot and expects me to lure you into a snare. But I swear he said nothing about your wife being a part of it. With my help you can go in prepared and save her from him."

Raoul could not help the chill of suspicion. None of this made sense and yet it held convenience. "Why would you want to help me?"

"Because Gabriel de Tophet is a monster. Everything about him is false… Harry," he leaned out from behind the column, a covered face leering down beneath a hat. "I need you to believe that it's me! That I'm alive and meant every word I said to you that I wanted to be virtuous!"

"I believe you Dorian…" Harry's often confident voice faltered. "But virtue is a trait, not a goal…"

"I will praise any man who can return my wife to me," Raoul interrupted. "Can you take me to her?"

"I can."  
>"Then we haven't a moment to lose!" Raoul, who had never removed his overcoat since returning home, went instead for his hat. "Are you coming, Harry?"<p>

Lord Henry remained at the foot of the stairs, watching with some consternation as the shadow timidly descended the stairs. It maintained its distance from the dandy, but also never looked away.

"Yes…" Harry said after some delay. "I am coming. I believe that it is you, Dorian... But I am terrified to know how."

"It terrifies me as well, my dear Harry…" Dorian barely spoke above a whisper.

With a tug at the scarf which masked his face, he moved swiftly for the front door. When he was certain that Raoul and Harry were following, he slipped out into the night as their guide to the catacombs.


	22. 22 Exchanging Promises

22.

EXCHANGING PROMISES

The trap was set and Dorian had been sent out to draw Raoul to it. But as Erik awaited his prey in the dank catacombs, thirsty for retribution, uneasiness had crept up on him. There was a nagging feeling within him that weakened his rage as well as his desire to have Christine. It was doubt and he suddenly lost confidence in his plan to eliminate the young comte.

There was only one way he could think of to reestablish his initial vigor in his search for happiness at last, and that was to see her again. To confirm to himself that she needed him as much as he needed her. He hid in the shadows, as he was so accustomed to, until he saw Raoul leave the chateau frantically. He was alone, which meant that Christine had to be inside.

Erik found her, alone and docile in the firelight. And he spoke to her, out of sight and yet as open as a book. Simply seeing her and hearing her once more was enough to strengthen his resolve. However, there was one thing he did not count on… She knew who he was. Not as Gabriel de Tophet, but as Erik. She knew and she wanted him to let her alone in peace.

He could feel his plan beginning to crumble at once, yet that only fed into his desperation. It allowed him one last burst of vigor to see this plan through and have her once and for all. Once again his soul was aflame with ambition and he fled from the chateau de Chagny. Raoul would be at the catacombs before the night was over, and Gabriel had every intention of being there to welcome him.

All traces of his so-called renovations were cleaned long before Dorian Gray was dispatched to bring in the comte. All that was left to do now was to lurk and wait. There were only the laughing faces of the skulls along the walls, their patterns seemingly untouched as they concealed the destructive talents of Erik.

Behind their bony walls was skillfully packed numerous containers of something that had not only sentimental value, but efficiency in Erik's tortured history: Gunpowder. Yes, he was willing to bury the Comte de Chagny beneath Paris itself to free his beloved Christine once and for all.

The catacombs were black as pitch when he returned to them, a slight graze of the cold wall the only necessary means for navigating through their labyrinthine passages. He had not descended far, however, when the sound of footfalls echoed through the darkness. Had Dorian returned already?

Erik's steps lightened to a silent creep, his body pressing to the deathly wall as he listed to the steps approaching. They were light as well, but awkward in the blackness. Accompanying them was quickened breathing, the kind of breathing that he recognized as fear. Perhaps it was Dorian… Or perhaps it was Raoul who had ventured this far alone. He followed the steps at a calculated distance. They were on their way to where the trap awaited, the only cave with a candle lit to draw the unwitting traveler. If it was Raoul, he would end up right where Erik wanted him. But if it was Dorian, he would spoil everything with his clumsiness. Erik needed to be sure.

"Who is this that has such courage to brave the darkness?" he whispered.

A light gasp sounded and the footsteps halted immediately. Then, a woman's voice replied.

"Erik?"

He too froze. "Christine!"

A small hand then touched his chest, and upon contact, her fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak like a person drowning at sea. Though the darkness was to blame, he could not help the quickening of his heart as she blindly reached for him and touched him of her own accord. Taking her hand in his own, he guided her through the maze of bones, safely away from the cave that had been rigged. He would not search for any light, not if it meant leading Raoul away from the trap. Instead, he took her to one of the smaller nooks of the catacombs, pressing her back into a corner.

"Why have you come here?" he whispered.

"I could not let you run away again," she replied with unusual nerve and at a normal volume.

"_Sh…_" he remained quiet, his finger touching to her soft lips. "You should not have come…"

"Why not?" she whispered. "You cannot always be the one to pursue. I've come to guarantee that you will stay away. To make you see that your love will only kill me."

"Kill you?" Bitterness ached through him as he nearly wanted to laugh. "It has done nothing but kill _me_. It _has_ killed me and I am still in search of my life. You are the only means I have in getting my heart to truly beat again, Christine…"

The nearness of her was beginning to intoxicate him again, and the cloak of darkness almost gave him dangerous courage. But he did not have the luxury of time. Raoul's arrival was imminent. All hopes of winning her love would be lost if she even suspected his plot.

"You must not be here…" he said painfully.

"I will not go until you swear to me you will leave us be. Erik, Gabriel… whoever you are… I am married to Raoul… And I love him…" Her words were forced, and he could hear the tension in her voice. But she was resolute.

"I cannot swear that!" His whispered voice strained as he refrained from shouting. To swear such a thing would negate all that he hoped to accomplish this night. It would make his efforts for nothing, except to cause Christine pain.

"Erik…" her voice was barely audible even as he could feel her breath upon his face. Her hand then crawled its way up his lapel until her fingers touched his jaw. "Can't you remember why you had let me go before? After I had promised to be your bride?"

"Yes… You let me kiss you…" His being ached with recollection of that night. "Never before or since have I kissed a women, and I shan't kiss another, Christine."

"And I will never marry another man other than Raoul," she wept quietly.

The hand that she held to his face was gently seized, and as he did so, his fingers trailed over her own fair knuckles. "Then why are you wearing two rings?" he softly challenged.

She jerked her hand free and he could feel her warmth fading as she distanced herself from him. He could not see her movements, but suddenly his hand was taken, the feeling of a warm object pressed into the palm of it. It was a plain ring.

"I wish to trade one promise for another."

The finality in her voice rendered his heart into pieces. "So it seems then…" he began falteringly, his hand closing around the ring. "…that even had I been handsome there was never any hope of sharing a lifetime with you."

There was no reply. Instead, her delicate arms snaked around him slowly, her hands pressing to his back as she pulled herself tightly against him. He could not move as he could feel her cheek pressing to his breast, the scent of her hair tickling his nose. It was enough to make him welcome death, but the warmth that one should expect from an embrace was absent as he knew this was a farewell.

"Will you not even kiss me for the last time?" he asked mournfully. "It would be more merciful than this torturous execution…"

Her clutch tightened around him and he could feel her frail body tremble. "Don't ask me to do what I have been fighting for so long already…"

Those words were enough for him to move at last, his hands taking her shoulders to slowly pry her away. He could not help the burrowing of his fingers into the bone of her shoulder as he simultaneously pushed her and turned himself away.

"Then let me die…" he choked on the agony as it emerged.

"Erik…"

But then the sound of a loud scrape echoed out deep within the caverns, followed by a hissing sound. The trap had been triggered.


	23. 23 True Colors

23.

TRUE COLORS

The hissing sound, faint as it was, continued and Erik could feel Christine's alarm. She could not know what was happening, and Erik did not want her too. Pushing her against the wall, he flew towards the sound.

"Do not move!" he shouted at her.

He did not wait for a reply, if there was any, and flew through the skeletal corridors towards the hissing and where he knew the trap awaited. It was in the only cave with light that was provided by a few candles where a trip wire had been set to drop one of those candles onto a fuse. Erik had deliberately shortened the length of the fuse to give his victim time to sweat, but not time to escape. In his short sprint from where he left Christine, he arrived in time to see Raoul standing in that cave, looking around confusedly. But he wasn't alone. There was a well-dressed gentleman with him. Who was _that_ and why were so many wrenches being thrown into his plan?

There was no time to stop and wonder about these unforeseen complications as the fuse was continuing to burn. Instead, he raced into that lit up cave and seized Raoul by his collar and hurled him towards the entrance.

"Run you fools!" he bellowed at them, all the while giving the dandy stranger a rough push in the same direction.

Raoul had stumbled so much from the surprise that he fell to the dirty ground. By the time he looked up to see that it was none other than Gabriel de Tophet who pushed him, there was a terrible explosion that sent pieces of bone and rock flying from the wall in a succession of bursts. The first caused them all to shield their eyes, but the ones that followed caused the roof of the cavern to crack, and pieces began to fall at the entrance of the cave.

Erik made a dash to escape himself, but it seemed this would be the only successful part of his plan. For the same rocks that were predestined to fall upon the Comte came falling upon his own head, dropping him before he could escape from their reach. There was a cry of pain from Erik before the rest of the cavern collapsed, the dust billowing in all directions and the light being snuffed out immediately.

* * *

><p>The catacombs were returned to blackness, its corridors still reverberating from the explosions as the ancient walls and bones resettled. Dust filled the air, practically suffocating all who attempted to breathe. Dorian was among them, his masking scarf doing little to keep out the old dust.<p>

He did as he was told and led Raoul to the catacombs, but with Harry there he was more fearful of revealing himself in the only light that awaited them at the end of the trap. He did not know what the trap entailed, only that it was meant for Raoul. But by alerting the young comte beforehand, Dorian had every hope of saving him and his wife from Gabriel. So while he stayed behind in the cover of the dark, he allowed Harry and Raoul to go on ahead to see if Christine was in that seemingly occupied cave.

Never could he have expected Gabriel to fly in from the shadows, throw both Raoul and Harry back into the dark before the walls came crashing down.

What had happened? In the dizzying darkness that returned, he could not begin to wrap his mind around it.

When the unanimous coughing began to subside, he could hear the comte struggling to speak regardless of his choking.

"Christine! Christine!"

"Dorian, where are you?" Harry coughed.

"I'm here, Harry…" Dorian gagged on the dust in his throat.

"What the devil happened?" Lord Henry was clumsily moving nearer and Dorian could hear the sound of his feet stumbling over some of the fallen rocks.

"It was Gabriel!" growled Raoul. "That bastard… Christine!"

A smaller cough then echoed out some distance away. "_Raoul?_"

The relief in Raoul's voice could not be missed as he called for her again. After much scrambling in the dark, atop the debris of the explosion, the comte and his wife at last found each other.

"Are you all right, my love?" Raoul said frantically.

"Where is he?"

"If you mean Gabriel, he's dead. Killed by his own trap… You're safe at last, my dear…"

Dorian strained to listen to the movement of each individual within the small space. He could hear Harry beside him, and the two lovers nearby. But there was an additional sound of movement that he wasn't certain he heard. Then it was confirmed by a weak groan.

"Have you any matches, Harry?" Dorian said quickly.

Compliantly, the older dandy scrabbled in the dark and found a lighter in his coat, since he never carried matches. Pressing down on the lever, the flame ignited and illuminated the small space. The cloud of dust was still dissipating, but where the entrance of the cave had been was now a mound of rocks and bones. At the bottom of it, there could be seen a head of silken hair, and a once lovely hand gashed from merciless stone. It was Gabriel, and his hand was moving.

Christine let out a frantic gasp. "Erik!"

She pushed away from her dumbfounded husband and dropped to the crushed figure. Breathlessly, she began to roll the heavier rocks off of him, the smaller ones lifted with surprising strength as her dainty hands as she threw them aside. Harry was the only one to move forward to assist her, handing Dorian the lighter before helping her to move the one boulder that weighed upon Gabriel's spine. At its removal, he groaned loudly with pain.

When he was freed enough, they fought to pull his legs from beneath the rubble, turning him with effort to lie him flat on his back. But the movements provoked more growls of pain from him. His eyes were pinched shut, his face still beautiful despite the scrapes and dirt that marred it.

"My God…" Harry whispered to himself as he looked upon the face that he knew as Dorian, his eyes panning to the one who was hidden beneath a scarf. "It's not natural…"

Meanwhile, Christine placed her hands upon Erik's face, leaning in worriedly. But Gabriel lifted his bloodied hand to her shoulder, giving her a hard push away.

"Go!" he said hoarsely. "You… have my promise… Leave me here to die and I shall eternally leave you be…"

"Not like this…" Christine whispered. She did not seem to react when her husband took hold of her arms, attempting to pull her away.

"We must get out of here, Christine," he said softly but sternly. "This man has attempted to murder us all!"

It then struck Dorian like a bolt of lightning. Raoul was wrong; Gabriel didn't try to kill them all. He easily could have let them all die just by staying at a safe enough distance. But he deliberately pushed Raoul from that cave. He _deliberately_ allowed him to live while sacrificing himself. Dorian aspired to be good, but not once did he consider the act of sacrifice. And as he stood there watching his former face writhe on the ground in accepted pain, he could feel the burn of a fire consume his heart.

Dorian succeeded in reuniting the comte with his wife, but he knew with icy clarity that he did not even care. Had they died he would have only mourned his failure in establishing the façade of virtue. His actions had been selfish from the beginning, just as Lord Henry had taught him long ago. Yet here was the murderous _Erik_ who performed the act to match the face in a way that Dorian never was and never could be capable.

Now, more than ever, he was certain that perhaps indirectly, this Erik had stolen Dorian's prized possession because in some miniscule way that outweighed Dorian's own reasons, he deserved the second chance.

And he _hated_ him for it.

All attention was on the wounded villain, who continued to push Christine away despite the tears in his eyes. No one was looking at the masked one who held the lighter. With a searing coldness, Dorian stooped down to take into his hand one of the shattered bones that were blown from the wall. Gripping it tightly, he moved towards where the others were and silently handed Harry the lighter. His old friend took it without question, until he saw the sharpened bone in his hand.

"Dorian," he began, but it was too late.

The rage had spilled over and Dorian was lifting that knife-like leg bone over his head. There was no time for anyone to stop him, his anger allowing him to move far too quickly. The bone was brought down, the ancient remains penetrating into the already broken chest of Gabriel.

"_You're a thief!_" Dorian screamed before he stabbed again, the blood darkening the bone and Erik's clothes alike. "No one deserves it but me!"

When he buried the sharpened bone again into the imposter's heart, Dorian once more felt the immediate pain that ignited within him when he sought to destroy his painting. It was so sudden and crippling that he fell heavily backwards, the weapon flying from his hand. As he lay on the cold earth, the voices distant around him, he suddenly felt himself drowning and he could taste his own blood bubbling up from his throat.


	24. 24 Final Farewell

24.

FINAL FAREWELL

Dorian had fallen as quickly as he had flown in his attack on Gabriel. The lighter in Harry's hand was trembling, causing the shadows to dance even more madly across the bloodied bodies that lay before them. The scarf that was concealing Dorian's face had fallen away in the action, and they could see the blood pouring from between a lipless mouth, gasping air being gagged through jagged teeth.

It was a face that Raoul had longed to see dead or dying, the face of the Phantom of the Opera. Yet it had a stranger's voice, and he stared with almost as much terror as Lord Henry. The older man was confused, his fear seeming to keep him in place rather than run. Raoul's own gaping was interrupted when a loud cry of despair sounded from Christine.

Raoul had looked away for a moment, and when he looked again, his wife was laying over the bloodied body of the lovely Gabriel de Tophet. He too was drowning in his own blood, and in unison, both he and Dorian released one last gargled breath. The young comte had wanted nothing more than to see either of these villains dead, but as he now looked at their empty eyes, the chill of guilt crept in. He was not as willing to see death as he had anticipated, and now his wife was mourning his rival.

Gently, he took her shoulders. "Christine, please…"

But her grip on the dead man was strong. There was a moment of quiet weeping— not very long— before she gave an almost invisible nod. Her delicate hands rested upon the cold cheeks of Gabriel and she brought her mouth to his bloody lips. Raoul's skin crawled with anger to see his wife kiss the one who had tormented them both, but something kept him from interfering. Unlike the last time that they had escaped the Opera Ghost, he was irrefutably dead.

It filled him with disgust, but it was his love for Christine that allowed her this last chance to bid farewell to her Angel of Music and to live her life free of his dark influence.

At last, she allowed him to pull her to her feet, her fingers lightly touching the blood that now lay upon her lips. Not a word was uttered from her and by the light in Harry's trembling hand, they found their way back out of the catacombs and into the chilled dawn that stretched over Paris.


End file.
